


five times steve and bucky share a bed + the one time it really counts (and other scenarios)

by kupur



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: (both of those are non-sexual), 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Pepper Potts, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Consensual Non-Consent, F/F, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitals, M/M, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Fandoms Not Mentioned in Tags, POV Third Person, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Mission, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Quote: Love is for children, Regret, Sharing a Bed, Spoilers, Telekinesis, Telepathy, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Trouble In Paradise, Unrequited Love, pre-Winter Soldier, public embarrassment, requests are open
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kupur/pseuds/kupur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tags: steve/bucky, first meets, bed sharing, pre- and post-serum steve, pre- and post-winter soldier bucky, slight angst, fluff</p><p>warnings: slight ca:tfa spoilers, slight ca:cw spoilers (canon divergence)</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. five times steve and bucky share a bed + the one time it really counts

**Author's Note:**

> tags: steve/bucky, first meets, bed sharing, pre- and post-serum steve, pre- and post-winter soldier bucky, slight angst, fluff
> 
> warnings: slight ca:tfa spoilers, slight ca:cw spoilers (canon divergence)

i.  
"Hey, get off'a him! Can't you find anyone your own size to pick on?"  
  
Steve deflects another blow, but just barely, and then he watches in awe as a bigger boy comes up and drags away the guy that was beating on him. He can't help but to stare—and he also can't help but to feel a little indignant as well. He struggles up from his place on the ground and uses his sleeve to mop away some of the blood that's dripping out of his nose. He addresses the bigger boy, "Hey! I had 'im on the ropes!"  
  
The bigger boy has finished shoving Steve's opponent back into the street, and he comes back to survey Steve. He's taller than Steve by a few inches, and he's got more than just a few pounds on him as well. He could be an older brother in another life. "Sure you did, pal," the bigger boy drawls. "Now c'mon, before you bleed to death out here."  
  
"Don't need no help," Steve counters. He swipes at his face again and is unsuccessful, smearing blood around. "This isn't the first time I've been in a fight."  
  
"Sure," the bigger boy agrees noncommittally. "Prolly not the first time you've lost a fight, either, but I'm still not letting you bleed out in the middle o' nowhere."  
  
"Ain't 'nowhere'," Steve complains, but he follows the older boy out of the alleyway and back onto the streets of Brooklyn. He's pleased to see that the boy's gait is slow so that Steve is able to keep up with him, but it also infuriates him a little.  
  
Eventually, the bigger boy leads them into a neighborhood Steve's never been to before, and Steve gets a little nervous. "Hey, you're not taking me somewhere to kill me, are ya?" he blurts out before he can stop himself.  
  
The bigger boy laughs. "No, I'm taking ya to get cleaned up. You can't go home with half your face mashed in, can you?"  
  
Steve takes a moment to think about it and decides that no, he probably shouldn't go home with blood all over his face and his knees and knuckles scraped to high heaven. As proud as his ma is that he stands up for himself, he's sure she wouldn't be happy if he came home bruised and battered once again. She's come home enough times to Steve looking nearly dead and he doesn't quite feel like giving her another mini-heart attack again tonight when she's off shift.  
  
He doesn't sound pleased when he relents. "Fine," he agrees. "But only for a minute."  
  
"A minute's all I need," the bigger boy says, sounding pleased. "C'mon in. I'm sure my ma's home with the first-aid kit."  
  
They've reached a house at the end of the block, old and dingy and comparable to the place Steve lives in with his ma. Steve immediately likes it; it's familiar-looking, even if it's anything but. He could feel at home on the rickety porch steps and with the mold that's creeping its way up one wall.  
  
The bigger boy opens the door to the house and pokes his head in. "Ma, you home? I got a fella here who needs a little clean-up."  
  
A woman comes to the door, looking haggard but pleased to see her son. "Don't tell me you brought home another stray," she starts to chastise fondly, but then she sees Steve and her smile grows some more. "Oh, who's this?"  
  
"This is—" the bigger boy starts, but then he stops. He turns to Steve and says, "What's your name?"  
  
"James," the woman says exasperatedly.  
  
"Steve," Steve offers. He holds out a hand—his less bloody one, thankfully—for her to shake. "Steve Rogers, ma'am." (For a fighting boy, he's always had manners—one of the things his ma has always loved about him.)  
  
The woman keeps smiling and opens the door some more. She ushers them in, saying, "Come in, boys. I can heat up some water, and James here knows where the first-aid is."  
  
"Ma," 'James' complains, but he dutifully enters the house and makes a bee-line to the bathroom, presumably to fetch the kit.  
  
Steve follows James's mother into the living room, where she makes him sit down on a ripped couch that smells somewhere between mothballs and must. It's an okay smell, because it kind of reminds Steve of his own home, which shouldn't be that good of a thought, but it is all the same.  
  
James returns in a minute with the first aid kit and a wet cloth. He sits next to Steve on the couch and starts swiping at Steve's face. Steve snarls a lip and says, "I can do it myself."  
  
"I know you can," James replies, "but I'm worried you might disfigure that maw of yours some more if you do."  
  
Steve gapes at the underlying message and accuses, "You calling me ugly, James?"  
  
"Yes," James says teasingly. And then, after a pause: "Bucky."  
  
"What?"  
  
James has finished cleaning Steve's face and is busy pulling the backing off of a butterfly bandage. "Bucky, not James," he says as he pinches together the cut on Steve's forehead and applies the bandage.  
  
"But your ma—"  
  
"Ma's old fashioned," Bucky excuses. "Sorry," he adds when his mother pokes her head into the room to give him the stink-eye.  
  
"It's getting late, boys," Bucky's mother says as she walks into the living room. She's holding two mugs, both of which are steaming. Steve guesses that they're full of tea or the like. "It might not be a bad idea for you to stay the night, Steve. I don't like the idea of you having to walk home in the dark."  
  
"I've done it before," Steve offers. He takes the cup Bucky's mother offers and rests it on his knee.  
  
Bucky's mother shakes her head. "I wouldn't feel right if I let one of James's friends get hurt walking home," she says with finality. "There's a phone in the kitchen if you need to call your mother, and there's room in James's room for you to sleep."  
  
"I'm not one of Bucky's fri—" Steve starts.  
  
Bucky cuts him off. "Sure thing, ma," he says pleasantly. He stands up and says to Steve, "Come on, I'll show you my room."  
  
"I don't even know you," Steve complains as he follows Bucky further into the house. "How do I know you and your ma won't kill me in my sleep?"  
  
Bucky chuckles. "You're awfully worried about getting killed when you were about to die in that alley," he points out. "An' you trusted me enough to follow me home, so shut up and get in here."  
  
"Wasn't gonna die," Steve mutters, but he follows Bucky into Bucky's room. Then he stops and stares dumbly. "There's only one bed."  
  
"Well, yeah, unless you wanna bunk with one'a my sisters, but I don't think my ma would care for that," Bucky says. He doesn't sound at all concerned about the prospect of having to share his bed with another boy.  
  
"But it's—" Steve starts.  
  
"You gonna grope me in my sleep?" Bucky asks, spinning on his heel to face Steve. When Steve only gapes and doesn't reply, Bucky says, "Cause I'm not gonna grope you, so you might be the only one with a problem. Now, you gonna come in and sleep? There's some cool stuff I can show you in the morning if you stop fussing about it."  
  
"Not friends," Steve says, but he enters Bucky's bedroom. It's plain, simple—not a problem, as long as Bucky keeps his hands to himself as promised.  
  
Bucky crosses the bedroom and starts digging in his dresser. He tosses a pair of sleep pants at Steve and corrects, "Not yet. Now, get undressed so we can get under the covers before the heat goes out."  
  
Steve does; Bucky turns around while Steve changes, and Steve turns around while Bucky changes. After, Steve waits until Bucky crawls into one side of the bed before following suit, and they lay there in silence before Bucky says, "G'night, Steve."  
  
"Night, Bucky."  
  
ii.  
It's December and Steve is sick with pneumonia, again. His ma has taken to trading shifts with the other nurses in an attempt to get overtime pay, and although the extra money is nice, it does nothing to weaken the cough that rattles Steve's chest every time he breathes. It gets to the point where he can't do much more than curl up on himself in bed, too tired to reach out to his bed stand for his medicine or for his cup of water. All he can really do is stay bundled up beneath his blankets, shivering with psychological cold—because he's sweating, really—and attempting to keep his breaths even so he doesn't spin into an asthma attack. The last thing he needs is wheezing and choking on top of his already-chattering lungs.  
  
Sarah comes home that night after her shift, looking frazzled and exhausted. Her blonde hair is tangled, half out of her sloppily-made bun, and she has dark circles under her eyes that rival even Steve's. Even so, she's the best thing Steve's seen all day, even though her steps are wobbly and he can tell she just wants to collapse into her own bed and sleep the day away, and he's grateful when she takes a few minutes to help him down his pills and sip at his water, which has gone much too luke-warm for his tastes by now. Still, Steve chokes down the huge pills with maximum effort and tries to reassure her that he's fine.  
  
She doesn't believe him. Even dead on her feet, head dizzy and heart beating too heavy in her chest, she's able to pick out his lies. She scolds him, albeit tiredly, and tells him that she can take the next day off of work if he needs her to.  
  
Ultimately, she goes back into work, racoon-circles darker under her eyes and her gait unsteady with fatigue, but not before she shakes Steve awake and introduces a visitor to him.  
  
"Bucky's going to be watching over you while I'm on shift," she explains to him. Steve's bleary-eyed, but he can still see how sorrowful his mother looks at the prospect of not being there for her only son. He hates that look.  
  
"Ma, I told you, I can take care of myself," Steve interjects. His voice is thick and heavy, his words slurred with sick and tiredness. He's having trouble keeping his head up so he can look his ma in the eyes, but he tries with valiant effort anyway.  
  
Sarah just regards him with a soft smile. There's not pity in her eyes—she knows better than to feel sorry for her strong boy—but the look still hits Steve right in the chest. "I know," she says softly, loud enough for Steve to be able to hear her. "But I worry. You haven't been this bad in years..."  
  
_...and the last time you were sick, you nearly died_ , are the unspoken words. She doesn't need to say them; Steve knows them all too well.  
  
"B'sides," Bucky interjects, "I haven't gotten to spend an entire day with you yet, Stevie! You can't honestly say you don't want to spend an afternoon with me, can you?"  
  
"You'll get sick—" Steve protests. He cuts himself off to start coughing, a deep, hacking cough that sends sputum up his throat. He swallows it back down and is only slightly disgusted with himself; he's done worse.  
  
Bucky puffs up with pride. "Haven't gotten pneumonia in years," he says. "Healthiest kid on the block, or so Missus Rogers here says."  
  
Sarah looks bashful at the compliment; a rosy blush starts filling her cheeks, darkening them in a way that even Steve can see. She's always flushed at praise. "Yes," she contends. "And a healthy immune system to boot. He won't get as sick as you do, Steve."  
  
Steve just scowls. He can tell that neither his ma nor Bucky will back down; if they want Steve to be babysat for the day, he'll be babysat for the day. There's no way around it; for as stubborn as Steve is, Sarah is just as bad. It's one of the things Steve loves about her—she's his match, through-and-through, and though she doesn't get into bar fights like Steve does, she's vigilant in her own unique ways. Whether he likes it or not, she'll get her way today, especially since he's in no mood (physically or otherwise) to fight back on it.  
  
"Fine," he agrees. Addressing his pal, he adds, "But I get to say, 'I told you so' when you get sick, too."  
  
Bucky grins, the corners of his mouth turning up in that familiar way. Steve wants to sketch the way his lips crook up, the way the creases by his eyes wrinkle up. He's always liked Bucky's smile; it's wide and happy, if not a little arrogant. It's always made Steve's own bright smile pale in comparison.  
  
"All right," Bucky repeats. He sends a goofy smile Sarah's way and says, "I think he'll be in good hands for now, Missus Rogers. An' I know the hospital number if he gets any worse."  
  
Sarah beams. "I knew I could count on you, Bucky! I'll see you by ten, Steve." She leans over to press a light kiss onto Steve's too-hot forehead, and her lips feel warm against his skin. Still, he revels in the feel of her.  
  
As soon as Sarah's out the door, Bucky turns to Steve and says, "Damn, Steve, you look hot."  
  
Steve scowls some more. "I'm not in the mood for games right now, Buck." He has to struggle a little to get the words out, and he's not sure if it's because of the pneumonia or if his asthma is flaring up again. He hopes it's just the pneumonia; his inhaler's too far away right now and he doesn't feel like getting up to search for it. The pneumonia he can handle: hot water, blankets, sleep. He's gone through this routine before.  
  
"I'm not playing any games," Bucky says. He reaches over to tug at one of Steve's blankets. "Really, Steve, you're sweating like a pig."  
  
"I have a fever," Steve shoots back. Even sick, he's not about to back out of debating with Bucky. He can hold his own, and he'll continue to hold his own even when his brain feels like it's melting and his skin feels like it's ten degrees too cold. The downside of pneumonia on Steve's body: he's always cold. Even the five blankets he's got piled up on him do nothing to cease the chill in his bones. He'd add on another blanket if he could, but there's only one left in the house, and that's his ma's comforter, so he's not about to take that away from her.  
  
Bucky succeeds in yanking off two of Steve's blankets. Although Steve doesn't get any colder from the removal of the two, he also doesn't get any warmer. He continues shivering from inside his blanket cocoon and watches Bucky with narrowed eyes.  
  
Bucky doesn't relent, however. He shucks another blanket away so that Steve's only left with two, and then he stands back to survey his handiwork. "That's better," he decides. "Can't have you suffocating from underneath all that."  
  
Steve continues glaring at his best friend. "I'm cold," he complains. "And sick. C'mon, Buck, can't a guy get a break?"  
  
"Since when does Steve Rogers want a break?" Bucky teases. He keeps standing there for a minute, and then he says, "Scoot over, Rogers."  
  
Steve blinks owlishly. "Excuse me?" he rasps.  
  
"You heard me," Bucky goads. He's starting to peel away the blankets on the unoccupied side of Steve's bed. "You're cold and I'm tired. Works out for both of us. Now nudge over."  
  
"You'll get sick—" Steve starts.  
  
"Then you can tell me you told me so," Bucky says matter-of-factly. He doesn't sound at all concerned at the prospect of catching Steve's pneumonia and becoming bedridden. "C'mon, budge over, Steve."  
  
Steve snarls a lip at his friend but manages to pull himself closer to the far end of the bed. He watches as Bucky slides under the covers and tries not to fall off the edge of the bed while Bucky adjusts himself. When Bucky's finally underneath the covers, he rolls over to look at Steve and then makes a gesture that Steve can't fully comprehend.  
  
"What?" Steve says dumbly.  
  
"Get over here," Bucky says exasperatedly. "I'm not having you fall off the bed. Scoot back now."  
  
Steve complies, albeit hesitantly. Still, he can't deny that laying down next to Bucky, wrapped up in Bucky's lean arms, feels nice. He's almost warm, which is a miracle in itself—Bucky must have a magic internal thermostat or something, because Steve's warmer than he was with three extra blankets, and that's saying something.  
  
Steve thinks he could lie like this forever, wrapped up and warm. Bucky just grumbles to him, "Stop twitching and go back to sleep." Steve does.  
  
When Steve wakes up hours later, feeling significantly less exhausted, he's pleased to see that Bucky's passed out on his own accord. He might even venture to say he's a little endeared by the slight trail of drool that's etched its way down Bucky's perfect chin.  
  
iii.  
Steve's eyes are red-rimmed and his shoulders are shaking when he says, "I think I might take you up on that offer now."  
  
Bucky opens the door to his apartment wider and lets Steve in. He shuts the door behind the scrawnier man and then locks it, saying, "Not a problem. I told you, Steve, I'm here with you 'til the end of the line."  
  
Steve doesn't reply, but he doesn't need to; Bucky knows what he's feeling. It's been a rough couple of days, what with the funeral arrangements and all that. Bucky can't begin to imagine the pain Steve's feeling, but he can at least try to soften it a little. He goes into the kitchen to start heating up a pot of water.  
  
When Bucky has finished pouring hot water into mugs, he brings them into the living room. He passes one over to Steve, who's sitting on the couch and looking forlorn, staring at the living room wall with glassy eyes. He doesn't respond when Bucky asks him how he's doing.  
  
The apartment is all too silent without Steve's usual jibber-jabbering. Bucky tries to fill the quiet up by talking about anything and everything, anything to try to bring up Steve's spirits a little. "There's a new picture show setting up next week; I heard it's got that one gal you've taken a liking to, the dark-haired one. And remember that one time we went to Coney Island and you threw up on the Cyclone? I heard that Charlie—the big bully, that same one—puked on it last weekend! So much for being a tough guy, right?"  
  
Steve is starting to smile, just a little bit. Bucky keeps it up.  
  
"And remember Missus Mary, your old schoolteacher? I ran into the other day, 'nd she said she's got a coupl'a pictures saved up from your time there." Bucky lets out a low whistle. "Boy, Stevie, I gotta tell you, they were some mighty fine pictures, even if you didn't manage to stay inside the lines."  
  
"I colored the sky green," Steve offers. He's managed a wry smile now, tiny but still there. "Thanks, Buck."  
  
"Anytime. 'Til the end of the line, remember, or did you forget already?"  
  
"'Til the end of the line," Steve repeats.  
  
Bucky puts a hand on Steve's knee and pats it. "Anything I can do to make you feel better?" Bucky offers. "I don't have much in the house, but I can always run out, and if there's something you wanna do—"  
  
"It's fine," Steve interjects quickly. "I don't need anything."  
  
"But if you do—"  
  
"I'll tell you," Steve says firmly. "Just... Can we just set out the couch like you said?"  
  
"Yes," Bucky says automatically.  
  
He and Steve get up and start rearranging the furniture, shoving away chairs and tables to make a large empty space in the middle of the room. They set up the floor, taking the cushions off of the couch and placing them down on the hardwood to create a sort of mattress. Bucky retrieves a blanket from the bedroom, and together he and Steve lay down on the cushions and try to relive when they were younger.  
  
It doesn't work. Steve squirms uncomfortably and says, "Buck..."  
  
Bucky twists to face him and says, "Yeah?"  
  
"Let's ditch the cushions. Can we just share a bed like we did that first night?"  
  
_First night we met_ are the unspoken words. "Sure," Bucky agrees.  
  
"Not like... I just don't want to be alone right now," Steve says hastily. He looks a little embarrassed now, like there's an unspoken undertone in his words. If there is, Bucky can't tell what it is.  
  
"Not a problem," Bucky says. He stands up and offers Steve a hand. "I've got the good quilt already out, and I'm pretty sure I've got a couple extras if you need them."  
  
"Thanks, Bucky."  
  
Bucky waves him off again. "You're my best pal, you know that? Anything for you, Steve."  
  
"'Til the end of the line," Steve says ruefully. It's almost like their mantra, now.  
  
"Exactly!" Bucky beams. He starts leading the way to his bedroom, Steve trailing along behind him dutifully. It feels like the first night they met all over again, with Steve following along blindly and moodily.  
  
Bucky, just like that first night, slips into bed first. Steve follows along, and once he's in, Bucky automatically curls in closer so that Steve's half on top of him. It's not ritual—they rarely share a bed, after all—but it feels natural. Comfortable. Bucky feels like he could lay this way forever.  
  
Steve does too, and he falls into a dreamless sleep while wrapped around Bucky like a dying man grasping for water.  
  
iv.  
Bucky is bleary-eyed and a little dizzy when he asks confusedly, "I thought you were smaller."  
  
They don't have time to talk then, not when explosions are going off in the background and they're facing almost-certain imminent death, but they do talk when they get back to camp. Bucky is a more than just a little exhausted and Steve is dirt-streaked, but both of them are just so extremely relieved to not be dead or at the hands of Zola and Shmidt that they don't take the time to ponder over the earlier day's events.  
  
After the ruckus has gone down, the celebratory chants greeting Steve—"Let's hear it for Captain America!" Bucky shouts—fading away into silence, Steve brings Bucky to the medical tent. Bucky squirms away ("I'm fine, Stevie, nothing a night of rest can't fix"), but Steve ultimately gets his way ("Stubborn little shit," Bucky complains) and Bucky is sent to lie down on a cot a foot too short and two shades too scratchy.  
  
Steve sits down in a chair next to the cot while a brunette nurse starts to fuss over Bucky. The nurse wets a cloth towel with soap and water and starts rubbing it across Bucky's face and neck, trying to remove the streaks of blood and mud that are across it, while Steve watches on silently.  
  
When the nurse steps away to fetch a suture kit so she can sew up a laceration on Bucky's side, Steve leans forwards and says quietly, "I meant it: I really thought you were dead. They said..."  
  
"What? And leave behind my best pal?" Bucky interjects. He tries to ignore the pain that shoots through his side when he shifts so he can look Steve in the eyes. "I swear, Steve, I can't leave you for one day before you go off and do somethin' stupid. Can't leave you anywhere, can I?"  
  
Those are definitely not tears welling up in Steve's eyes, except maybe they are. He swipes at them hastily and gives Bucky what he hopes is a strong smile. "Guess not," he agrees.  
  
The nurse returns with the suture kit and sets up. Bucky tries not to watch as she threads the needle, but he can't help but to wince while she does so.  
  
Steve leans forward again. "Scared of needles?" he asks quietly. His lips are quirked up a little, a tiny little conspiratorial grin.  
  
"Never," Bucky retorts back. "Only thing scary here is your ugly mug."  
  
Steve's grin grows, and Bucky can't help it when his lips start curving upward as well.  
  
But when Bucky winces as the nurse guides the needle in through the tender skin on his side, Steve's smile fades, and he reaches out to steady his friend. "Wanna hold my hand?" Steve offers. It sounds sincere to Bucky, not joking or teasing.  
  
"Don't need to hold nobody's hand," Bucky says gruffly, but he relents and takes Steve's hand, squeezing it tightly as the nurse continues to slide the needle through his skin.  
  
Once the nurse is finished with suturing Bucky's laceration together and has tied off the ends of the suture thread, she gives strict instructions to Bucky to make sure that he keeps the wound clean. She tapes a piece of gauze over the wound and then leaves the medical tent, leaving Bucky and Steve as the only people in the dusty area.  
  
"Budge over," Steve commands once he's fairly certain the nurse won't be coming back.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"You heard me, now scoot over," Steve commands. "You heard the nurse—gotta keep pressure on it for a coupl'a hours."  
  
"I don't think that's what she meant," Bucky complains, but he shifts a little to make room on the tiny cot. It hurts his side to move, sending ripples of sharp pain throughout his body, and he winces.  
  
Steve notices and slides into the cot next to Bucky quickly. They lay facing each other, eye to eye, something that's simultaneously very familiar and very foreign at the same time; Bucky's always been used to resting his chin on top of Steve's head. This is different; he's not sure how he likes it yet.  
  
Steve slides a heavy arm over Bucky's side, making sure to keep clear of the cut. "Okay?" he asks quietly, unsurely.  
  
"S'long as you don't snore," Bucky retorts back. He can't deny, though, that having Steve next to him like this feels nice. He waits a moment more before adding, "Seems like the only time I get to bed you is when one'a us is either sick or hurt."  
  
Steve has to stifle a laugh, but Bucky can still feel it reverberate throughout the cot. "Guess so," he agrees. "Now shut up and go to sleep so you can get all healed up and back out on the field."  
  
"S'not that bad," Bucky complains, but he follows Steve's instructions anyway, and within ten minutes he's fast asleep in Steve's warm embrace.  
  
v.  
Bucky falls off the train, eyes wide and frightened, screaming out wordlessly. Steve can't do much except hang on to the side of the train and watch, heart pounding and breaking inside his chest. The last time he felt this small, this frightened, this powerless, is when he was small. God, that feels like a lifetime ago.  
  
Steve returns back to camp with dried tears on his face and a healing bruise underneath his left eye. He'd let someone—bad guy, villain, who even knows anymore—get a hit on him just so he could feel the pain, just so he could get back to reality. His heart is in his throat and he feels like he can't take in a deep breath, and he's just painfully reminded of when he was small with asthma, except that when he was small he had Bucky, and now he doesn't.  
  
He goes to sleep that night curled up on a mattress that smells vaguely like Bucky, clutching Bucky's extra uniform and wearing Bucky's sleep pants.  
  
He doesn't sleep well that night.  
  
Or any other night, for that matter.  
  
vi.  
Bucky comes to the Avengers Tower six months after he's released from cryofreeze in Wakanda. Steve and the other are already there, having been invited back by Tony months earlier after talking everything out. Tony had relented, forgiving Bucky for killing his parents and Steve for keeping it a secret, and had eventually agreed that signing the Accords hadn't been in their best interests. The gang had been reunited two months after Bucky was sent back into cryofreeze, and while T'Challa was busy working on finding a way to break Bucky's conditioning, Tony had decided to build Bucky a new arm.  
  
Bucky comes to the Tower wearing the arm. It's light and versatile, and it doesn't strain his shoulders or back as much as his old, bulky one had. It's not as great as having a real arm would be, but it's a good alternative. It has pressure sensors, so he can at least feel when he's touching something or when something is touching him, and although it doesn't have nerve sensors yet, Tony's busy working on developing something for that. It's a long process.  
  
He's welcomed to the Tower in the morning and subjected to security check after security check, and eventually he's presented with a badge of his own that gives him access to every part of the Tower. He clips it to his tee shirt and follows a higher-level agent around the building; she's busy showing Bucky what's on every floor, a tour guide of sorts. Bucky memorizes the floor plan of each level as readily as it's shown to him, an aftereffect of all his years working as the 'fist of Hydra.'  
  
It's an unpleasant thought.  
  
When he meets Tony for the first time in a long time, Tony punches him. It's expected, it really is, but it doesn't stop shock from flowing through Bucky's body. He reaches his right hand up tentatively to feel his cheekbone, which feels swollen but not broken. He's relieved to find that he doesn't have the urge to punch Tony back; as the Winter Soldier, he might have, but now, as Bucky—or maybe just James—Barnes, he doesn't want anything to do with violence. It's almost a joke: a soldier who doesn't want to fight. It's almost laughable.  
  
"I forgive you," Tony says once Bucky's finished checking his cheekbone over. It sounds mostly sincere, but Bucky still has to look at his face to check. Tony's eyes are expressive, so it's easy to see that he is telling the truth. Mostly. There might still be a little anger and hurt left in there, too.  
  
Bucky decides on saying, "Thank you." He can't really think of anything else to say; "It was the Soldier who killed your parents, not me" sounds too crass, and "I wish it hadn't happened either" sounds like it invalidates Tony's words.  
  
Tony might sense that Bucky wants to say something else, but if he does, he doesn't show it. Instead, he says, "Cap got all excited when he heard you were coming out of cryo. Come on, I'll show you to him."  
  
Bucky follows him out of the room. The higher-level agent falls away once they reach the elevator, and Tony and Bucky enter the metal contraption silently. The AI greets them both and then quiets itself.  
  
Steve's floor is empty at first appearance when they reach it. Tony clears his throat and asks, "F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you tell me where Rogers went off to?"  
  
"Captain Rogers is currently in his en-suite," comes a disembodied female voice from the ceiling. Bucky recognizes it as the same voice that was in the elevator, but he can't place how it's speaking or where exactly it's coming from. "Would you like me to page him for you?"  
  
"Yes, please," Tony expresses. "But don't tell him Barnes is here; I want to see his face when he sees."  
  
"Yes, sir," comes the voice again, and then it's quiet.  
  
Steve comes out a few minutes later looking sweaty. It's obvious that he's just finished a workout, if his athletic shorts are anything to go by. He enters the common area of the floor wiping his face with a towel, so he's not looking at either Tony nor Bucky when he says, "I was just about to head into the shower, Stark. Is there something you needed?"  
  
"There's someone I wanted to introduce you to. Well, re-introduce," Tony supplies.  
  
"Stark," Steve groans, but he pulls the towel away from his face. And then he gapes. "Bucky?"  
  
Bucky manages a smile, wry and lingering. "Steve."  
  
Tony starts to edge out of the room. There's a tension starting to form now, and even Tony can feel it. He's not quite sure how their meet is going to end up—either in punching or kissing—and so he leaves before he can find out. If he wants to, he can always have F.R.I.D.A.Y. pull up the security camera footage for Steve's floor.  
  
"I didn't know you were coming back today," Steve says, looking a little confused.  
  
Bucky offers up a little shrug. It instantly pulls Steve's attention to his left side, to the metal appendage hanging from his shoulder. "Me neither," he contends.  
  
Steve gestures at the arm. "Tony's work?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Steve nods. "It looks nice. Light. Does it feel okay?"  
  
The tension is still palpable; if anything, it seems to be growing. Steve is trying to avoid heavy topics, but it's not really working. Still, Bucky answers the question: "'S fine," he says. Then: "You miss me, punk?"  
  
Steve breaks out into a smile and the tension in the air seems to disappear all at once. "Of course, you jerk. Can't go a day without getting in trouble without you by my side, can I?"  
  
"You get in much trouble then, Rogers?"  
  
"Not as much trouble as you seem to have gotten into." Steve gestures at his own face, then adds, "Tony's work as well?"  
  
Bucky reaches a hand up to feel at his cheek again. It's still swollen; his version of the serum hadn't given him as much of an accelerated-healing factor as Steve's had, so he's going to have a shiner for a day or two. "Yeah," he agrees. "He packs a punch, even though he did forgive me."  
  
"That's good." Tension is starting to rise again and both of them can feel it. "I should probably go take a shower," Steve offers. "I'll only be a few minutes."  
  
"Okay," Bucky agrees.  
  
Steve leaves the common area to return to the bathroom, leaving Bucky to explore the floor for himself. It's big—the common area itself could fit the entirety of Bucky's old apartment—but feels like home. There are little things sprinkled about that declare the space as Steve's: the sketchbook and pencils, the shield, the shoes placed daintily in the corner. It's familiar, even if the familiarity stems from a time period from a century ago.  
  
Steve returns in ten minutes freshly showered, dripping water and dressed in more comfortable clothes. He notices Bucky surveying the area and says uneasily, "I usually don't stay here at the Tower. I have my own place over in the City."  
  
"Is it nice?"  
  
"It's pretty perfect. A lot bigger than your old place. And it's got heat." Steve looks pleased at that, and the tension starts to ebb away again.  
  
"Sounds nice. You'll have to show me it sometime."  
  
"Of course. I mean, only if you want to."  
  
"I want to."  
  
Steve looks like he's about to say something else, but then the voice from the ceiling pipes up. "Captain Rogers," it says, "Mr. Stark would like to remind you that there is a nine-o'clock briefing in the morning and that it would be beneficial for both you and Sergeant Barnes to retire for the night."  
  
Bucky can't help but to stare up at the ceiling while F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s busy talking, but he doesn't miss the way Steve turns to look at him. He turns back to Steve's waiting face to hear Steve ask, "Did Tony tell you where your room is?"  
  
Bucky is surprised, although he probably shouldn't be. "I have a room?" he asks. Even though Tony's forgiven him for the whole 'killed your parents' thing, he can't believe that Tony would be kind enough to grant him a room of his own. A couch maybe, but a room? It's more than he could have bargained for.  
  
Steve sighs, but it doesn't sound forced. "I don't know which floor it's on," he admits, "and, knowing Tony, he probably won't show you until tomorrow. But you can share with me tonight, if you want to. I can take the couch."  
  
Bucky is all too painfully reminded of Steve as a 5'4-nothing, with back pains and breathing problems that prevented him from laying anywhere except his mattress, which was giving and good enough to not give him breathing problems. Even though Steve is now taller than Bucky, it doesn't feel right to have him take the couch, so Bucky blurts out, "We can share the bed."  
  
"I don't want to force you to, Buck—" Steve starts.  
  
"I want to," Bucky interjects. And then, because he's so busy blurting out everything, he tacks on: "I've been wanting to share a bed with you ever since I met you, punk."  
  
"Jerk," Steve utters back instinctively. Then he pauses. "I'm sorry, what?"  
  
Bucky can't take back the words, so he doesn't try to. "I said, I've been wanting to sleep next to you for years, or has your hearing gone bad again?"  
  
"No, I heard you, just— What?"  
  
"Share a bed with me, Stevie," Bucky goads. He's enjoying the slight blush that's creeping up Steve's skin, mottling his cheeks and neck. "Been tryin' to get you to cuddle me since that time you got pneumonia and almost died."  
  
"I almost died a lot of times, Bucky," Steve says, but he's smiling a little at the memory, like he can picture that time in December when he was too sick to do anything but lay plaintively in bed like a dying dog. "But you mean—"  
  
"That I've been in love with ya since you sneezed in my face? Of course, you punk," Bucky says. He can only hope that he's not going to far with this, because this is the first time he's seen Steve in months and he's not sure how far Steve's feelings go.  
  
"That long?"  
  
"Maybe longer," Bucky admits.  
  
Steve breaks out into another grin. "Should'a said something, you jerk. I've been in love with you since you called me ugly and tricked me into staying the night at your house."  
  
"Well, at least one thing's the same," Bucky considers jokingly. "You're just as ugly now as you were back then."  
  
Steve can't help but to laugh at that, and he pulls Bucky in for a hug.  
  
And maybe that night Steve has a good dream for once, and he can't help but to curl up in Bucky's embrace while Bucky drools a line down that perfect chin of his.


	2. five times tony and pepper get into an argument + the one time they don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tags: pepper/tony, relationship development, tony does what he wants, bamf pepper potts, arguments, slight fluff
> 
> warnings: iron man spoilers, iron man 2 spoilers

i.  
Tony has never wanted to punch a woman before, but he thinks that today might break that rule of his.  
  
In front of him is a woman that is incredibly infuriating, incredibly bossy, and incredibly attractive. Her name is Virginia Potts and she's supposed to be Tony's new assistant, someone to help him manage his assets, except Tony is having a hard time focusing on anything other than _her_ assets, which happen to be pretty nice looking and in his face.  
  
"Hey! Eyes up here!" his new assistant says, snapping her fingers in front of Tony's face. Tony has never had anyone snap their fingers at him before—except reporters, but that's entirely different—and he doesn't like it that much. He hates it almost as much as he hates getting things handed to him.  
  
Tony gives in to her, though, and leans back in his chair. He's in his office in the Stark Industries tower, putting off his paperwork in favor of goofing off once again. If he had his way, he'd be done for the day and be busy patrolling the street corners for a girl or two. Of course, he rarely actually gets his way, not when the higher-ups of the company are involved, so he's stuck meeting with his new assistant.  
  
"Good," the assistant says. She folds her arms in front of her chest and says, "So, Mr. Stark, here are your plans for the day: you have a meeting with your investors in half an hour and then a meeting with the CFO of Stark Industries. At two, you have a publicity meeting. You have about an hour of free time after that, and then at four-thirty you have a meeting with the advertising department. I'll be following you around for the day to make sure you attend these meetings, because if you don't, you will be in trouble."  
  
She doesn't even sound sorry about all the meetings Tony has to go to today, which completely infuriates him. It probably shouldn't—she's supposed to be keeping him in line, after all, which is why she was hired—but it does anyway. He leans forward in his seat and tries to muster up a glare.  
  
"Okay," he starts, "here's how this is going to go. First, sweetheart, I am going to do whatever I want whenever I want, no questions asked. You're not going to make me do anything—especially not make me go to any meetings. Second, I'm not going to be in any trouble, because I am the CEO of Stark Industries, in case you haven't heard, Virginia."  
  
The assistant bristles. "In which case you can explain to the New York Times why, exactly, the CEO of Stark Industries is doing everything except running the company! I'm not going to clean up your messes for you, CEO or not."  
  
Tony just gapes. "I didn't ask you to clean up my messes," he retorts plainly.  
  
"You think I don't know your reputation? If I don't clean up your mess, you won't, and I'm not having Stark Industries get thrown to the ground just because you throw a fit and refuse to talk to anyone with a microphone."  
  
"That's not—" Tony defends weakly.  
  
As the assistant makes her way to the door of Tony's office, she adds, "And, by the way, it's Pepper."  
  
"What?" Tony can't figure out where she's coming from.  
  
"It's Pepper, not Virginia," she says, and then she's out the door.  
  
Tony thinks he's fallen in love.  
  
ii.  
"I think I like you."  
  
"I like you, too, Tony," Pepper says pleasantly.  
  
Tony can't tell if she's just going along with what he's saying or not; she's keeping a carefully neutral expression on her face. "No, I mean I _like you_ like you. 'Wanna go on a date with you' like you," he clarifies.  
  
Pepper just continues looking down at her notes. "I understood you the first time, Tony," she says. "Now, we need to decide how we're going to explain the sudden drop in sales for this third quarter. I'm thinking we try to divert and focus on our technology expansion, how about you?"  
  
Tony leans forward to try to make Pepper look him in the eye. "Pepper, what I'm saying is, would you like to go on a date with me?"  
  
This makes Pepper look up. "I would, but I can't." She turns back to her notes. "So we could do that, or we could try to bring attention to how well our marketing team is doing. That might ease tensions a little if the board sees how much Stark Industries is getting shown off."  
  
Tony doesn't even try to pretend he's listening to Pepper's talk about the upcoming board meeting. He knows that no matter how well he and Pepper prep he's going to end up going off on a tangent and probably get mid-quarter funding revoked instead of increased. "Why wouldn't you want to go out on a date with me?" he asks. He doesn't even try to mask the confusion edging his voice. "I'm Tony Stark: CEO of Stark—"  
  
"Of Stark Industries, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, I know," Pepper finishes. She's heard his speech before, so many times that she can practically recite it in her sleep. His list of accomplishments does nothing for her. She turns back to her notes once more and shuffles them around, trying to bring them back into some semblance of order. She already knows that Tony isn't listening to a word she's saying about the board meeting, but she tries not to let it bother her.  
  
"So why not?" Tony presses. He leans forward in his chair some more so that he's closer to her and then reaches out a hand to close the file she's reading. "I like you, you like me; it's perfect! Come on, one date: a night on the town, whatever you want."  
  
"What I want is to not get fired," Pepper snaps. She pulls her file folder out from under Tony's hand and flips it open to try to find the page she was on. He's starting to get on her nerves.  
  
"I'm the CEO and have all firing permissions," Tony says. He leans back in his chair now. "And I say I won't fire you if you go on a date with me."  
  
"No," Pepper says. She's reached the page she was on before and starts skimming through it again. "Besides, it's not up to you. Article IV, Clause 5."  
  
"Excuse me? Article what now?"  
  
"Article IV, Clause 5," Pepper repeats. "In that gigantic stack of paperwork you had me sign when I first started. No employee relationships within the company, subject to immediate and permanent dismissal."  
  
Tony blinks a couple times. He tries to remember exactly which clause she's referencing and then realizes she's probably memorized the entire thing. She's smart like that, which is one of the reasons Tony's so infatuated with her. "I'll get rid of the clause," he states. "Go on a date with me then?"  
  
"Not up to you, either. The board members are the only people allowed to remove or change clauses."  
  
"Then I'll fire the board and remove the clause. Now will you go out with me?"  
  
"Tony," Pepper expresses exasperatedly. That seems to be her default tone of voice when she deals with Tony nowadays. "You will not fire the board just so you can get your way. I talked to you about this, don't you remember?"  
  
"Uh, no. I think I was probably staring at your breasts that time," Tony says truthfully. "But! Seriously, what can I do to get you to go out with me?"  
  
He's not giving up, and Pepper can sense it. She sighs heavily and shuts her file folder, and then she begins to pack up her things. As she's leaving the room, she tells Tony, "I'll think about it if you can get through this board meeting and have it go our way."  
  
Tony gets through the meeting. He also gets the additional funding.  
  
He can't wait to tell Pepper.  
  
iii.  
"You did not, on live television, tell the entire world that you're Iron Man!"  
  
"Actually, I kind of did," Tony says nonchalantly. He shies away from Pepper in favor of heading into the kitchen. He starts rummaging through the cupboards while Pepper silently steams behind him.  
  
"This could completely ruin everything," Pepper fumes. "The company, your reputation—"  
  
"Us?" Tony asks.  
  
"What?" Pepper shakes her head. "Tony, we had this all planned out: you were supposed to read off of the cards and deny, deny, deny!"  
  
Tony pulls out a package of cookies from the cupboard and tears the container open. Through a mouthful of chocolate, he tells Pepper, "I don't do so well following directions, but you know that."  
  
Pepper sighs heavily and glances up at the ceiling, trying to keep her emotions in check. When she's fairly certain that she's not going to start shouting, she says, "Tony, this is a big deal. You can't just go off saying you're a superhero."  
  
"Even if I am?" He's watching her carefully now, trying to make sure her neck doesn't turn red like it does when she gets flustered and upset. So far, it's staying pale. He thinks that's a good sign.  
  
"Even if you are," Pepper agrees. "This is an HR disaster—"  
  
"Forget HR," Tony interjects. "Who gives a rat's a—"  
  
"Think about the company—"  
  
"The company's fine, it's me they're up in arms about, not the company—"  
  
"Exactly that!" Pepper snaps. Her neck is starting to redden now, and pink is spreading across her cheeks; it's not a good sign. "When they come after you, who's going to run the company? You can't do two things at once, Tony!"  
  
"Technically three," Tony intones. "I kind of did the Iron Man and CEO thing at the same time, so. Besides, I've had to deal with the press before. It's not that big a deal."  
  
"It's a huge deal! You've had to deal with the press for your... playboy shenanigans, but not this! Jesus, Tony."  
  
He's not feeling anger, not quite yet, but he's not sure exactly what he's feeling. All Tony knows is that he really doesn't like the way Pepper's reaming him out, as if he has no idea what kind of repercussions he's caused by ignoring any and all advice he was given in favor of catering to his own selfish needs. No, he's well aware of what he's done. He doesn't need to be reminded.  
  
"I'll deal with whatever comes up," Tony promises. He puts the snacks away.  
  
Pepper just sighs and slumps her shoulders. She looks utterly defeated, a look that Tony doesn't really like. "You shouldn't have to deal with whatever comes up," she complains. "You just shouldn't have done it."  
  
iv.  
Tony is only a little bit wounded when the fight with Ivan Vanko ends. He is, on the other end of the spectrum, a lot dizzy. After Vanko is carted away, Tony bends over, rips away the faceplate on the Iron Man suit, and promptly throws up.  
  
Pepper is by his side when he's finished retching. "Tony, are you okay?" she asks worriedly.  
  
"Fine, just peachy," he manages to get out. He spits to try to wash away the taste of vomit and then sits back on his heels. He feels exhausted and wants nothing more than to retire to a hotel room and pass out on one of those hard mattresses that hotels seem to always have. He also kind of wants to just pass out right here, right now, in the middle of the street in his Iron Man suit. It's not a half-bad idea, actually, but he stays conscious anyway.  
  
"Good," Pepper says, staring him in the eyes. Her own are wide and frightened, and Tony knows exactly why: she could have died. He also could have died, but he had the suit; she didn't. She had Happy and a car that was easily split in two by Vanko's mechanical arms. She has a right to be terrified. "I think that's enough excitement for one day, Tony."  
  
"Way ahead of you on that, sister," Tony says. He lets Pepper help him back up into a standing position, and he wobbles over with her to meet with Happy, who looks just as distraught. "Happy," he says in greeting.  
  
"Tony," Happy replies stiffly. "I called a cab; it should be here soon." He doesn't say anything else after that, but he doesn't need to; they all know what he's thinking.  
  
"Thanks," Tony says. He doesn't say anything else, either.  
  
The ride to the hotel is short and cramped. Tony refuses to take off his suit, citing the fact that he has nowhere to put it, and so Happy and Pepper sit on either side of him and try to avoid getting their clothes caught in the seams of the metal contraption.  
  
When they're safe in the hotel—Happy has his own room and Pepper and Tony are sharing, just because Tony can't ever seem to be left alone by himself—Pepper helps Tony out of the suit. It's a little damaged, but Tony figures that it's fixable. It might take a few days to put back together, but it's definitely doable. And if it's not, he can always make another suit.  
  
Once Tony's completely out of the Iron Man suit and back into civilian clothes, Pepper starts in on him, which Tony should have expected. "You really should not have done that," she says.  
  
Tony doesn't even try to pretend to play dumb. "I know."  
  
"You put yourself, as well as a lot of other people, in an incredible amount of danger."  
  
"I did."  
  
"You could have died."  
  
"I could have," Tony agrees.  
  
" _I_ could have died," Pepper points out.  
  
"I know. But you didn't."  
  
"But I could have, and that really worries me. Tony..." Pepper pauses to blink back a couple of tears that are forming in her eyes. "Tony, I really think you need to stop with this Iron Man business. I mean, it's great and all, it is, but you're putting so many people in danger, and—"  
  
"No," Tony says bluntly, interrupting her speech. He can't believe the words that are coming out of her mouth. Before she can say anything else, he continues, "Pep, I get where you're coming from, but I'm not ditching the suit. I put everyone in incredible danger, I get it, but without the suit everyone will be in more danger, and I can't let that happen. I can't just let more people get hurt because I want to stop others from getting hurt."  
  
"But Tony—"  
  
"Pep, no, sorry. End of discussion. It's not happening, it's just not, okay? And I really don't want to get into all of the finer points with you right now because I'm really, really tired right now. But we will talk, I promise. Just not tonight. Tomorrow. Rain check?"  
  
"Tony," Pepper says, but she relents.  
  
"I'm not ditching the suit," Tony reiterates. "But we will talk in the morning. Pinky swear."  
  
They don't talk in the morning, but Pepper understands the message anyway and Tony knows she does when she doesn't bring it up again.  
  
v.  
Pepper is shaking her head from side to side repeatedly, red hair bobbing as she does so. She looks pissed, if not entirely angry, at what Tony's just said. She's also glaring at Tony, but since that's kind of normal, he ignores it.  
  
"No," she says for the third time that night. "You are not poking Doctor Banner's buttons."  
  
Tony takes a deep breath and says carefully, "Not his buttons. Just his side. With something pointy. Just to see what happens. It's perfectly harmless."  
  
Pepper still doesn't look convinced. In fact, she's starting to look a little exasperated at the way this conversation is going. "And when he turns into the Hulk? No, Tony. I'm not letting you get Doctor Banner all flustered just to 'see what happens'."  
  
"I have a perfectly good explanation for it, though," Tony defends. "Anyways, come on, wouldn't it be cool to see what makes him tick? I think it would."  
  
"No, Tony," Pepper reiterates.  
  
Tony can tell she's not backing down, so he tries another method. "I could reverse the whole Hulk thing. I totally could. One less monster in the world, right? And it would just take a poke, and maybe a little sample of his blood, and—"  
  
"And if he wants your help, he can ask for it," Pepper says. She still sounds unamused. Her frustration seems to be growing as well. "But until then, you are not allowed to try to turn him into the Hulk for your own sick amusement."  
  
"It's not sick," Tony defends. "It's science."  
  
Pepper raises an eyebrow. "And isn't one of the rules of science to not deviate from the method without permission?" she counters. "No poking Doctor Banner or doing anything to aggravate him. And if I find out you do..."  
  
"What?" Tony prods. "Prohibit me from working in my lab for a week? Take away my Iron Man suit? Keep me in lock down?"  
  
"Try no sex for a month," Pepper says, turning on her heel to leave the room.  
  
Tony gapes after her.  
  
(He does poke Banner anyway, but he turns off the cameras to the room and blackmails everyone into not saying anything to Pepper so that she won't find out.  
  
She does anyway, and she lives by her promise.)  
  
vi.  
Tony brushes away a lock of red hair and smiles fondly at the sleeping face in front of his. Pepper looks almost innocent when she sleeps, all soft angles and quiet. He loves this side of her just as much as he loves her domineering, business-like persona.  
  
Pepper starts to stir and cracks an eyelid when she feels Tony's gaze on her. "Good morning," she says quietly, her voice cracking with morning heaviness.  
  
"I love you," Tony says.  
  
Pepper smiles at him, eyes shining. "I love you, too, Tony."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Requests are open! Any pairing, any prompt! [11 Sep 16]


	3. five times clint tells natasha he loves her + one time she says it back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tags: natasha/clint, post-mission/clint gets hurt, near-death experiences, unrequited love, relationship development
> 
> warnings: slight a:aou spoilers, swearing, use of god's name in vain

i.  
Clint's eyes are crinkling at the corners while he smiles, his gaze focused on the woman in front of him. She's busy regaling him with some tale about her last visit to Europe while he pretends to be completely infatuated with her. She's pretty—lush lips, long legs, bright eyes—so it's not hard for Clint to pay attention to her. In another life, he's sure he'd fall for her.  
  
The comm buzzes in Clint's ear, and he unfocuses from the conversation long enough to switch his attention around to hear Natasha start speaking. "East side clear," she says, her voice low. "Hacking through the mainframe now."  
  
Clint refocuses on the conversation and tilts his head. He brushes his fingers up against the comm in a way that makes it look like he's fiddling with his hair. When a gap in the woman's story comes, he grants her a smile, pushes down on the comm, and acknowledges, "Wow, that sounds great. Think you'll ever go again?"  
  
It's a signal: let Natasha know he's heard her loud and clear by working words like 'okay' or 'good' into regular conversation. He's perfected his technique over the years, and he'd like to say he's pretty good at slipping confirmatory words into conversation nowadays.  
  
"Copy," Natasha says through the comms, and then she goes silent again.  
  
The woman in front of Clint blushes slightly, a pink tinge flowing across her cheeks. "Maybe," she says coyly, sliding her hand across the top of the bar counter to brush at Clint's fingers. He resists the urge to pull away. "I'm sure the long plane ride will be much more tolerable next time... as long as you come with me."  
  
Clint sends off another smile, trying to make it look unforced. "Sure," he flirts back.  
  
The comm crackles again in his ear. "Mainframe's down, coming in now. Should be out in ten," comes Natasha's breathless voice.  
  
Clint reaches for the glass in front of him, successfully managing to disentangle the woman's fingers from his own. He takes a long sip from the glass while he tries to figure out what to say next.  
  
Luckily, the woman says something first. "My hotel's just down the block," she purrs. She starts dragging a finger up and down Clint's side, something that almost tickles him. He's sure it's meant to be erotic. She leans closer to him and puts her lips up close to his ear. "We can talk more about Europe in the morning..."  
  
"That sounds great," Clint agrees, brushing his fingers over the comm in his ear again. It doesn't sound great; the last thing Clint wants to do is go home—or to a hotel—with an off-duty Hydra agent. One that apparently has no idea who Clint actually is, which, Clint thinks, is pretty damn good luck. Unless she's faking, in which case Clint is so dead.  
  
The woman takes his hand and pulls him off of the bar stool. They've almost made it to the door of the building when Clint's comm splutters one more time.  
  
"Change of plans," Natasha says, her voice still breathless and airy. She sounds a little rushed this time around, losing her sense of completeness. "I'm out."  
  
The one thing that Clint is appreciative of is that the building is empty, save for the bartender. And it's entirely in Clint's favor that the bartender is currently in the back room, presumably grabbing bottles to restock the bar area, so it's only him and the woman in the room. It makes it so much easier for Clint to pull the gun out of the back of his waistband and clock the woman on the back of the head with it. She drops like a rock immediately, her head hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud. Clint hopes she won't wake up with too bad of a concussion; head pain, sure, but a concussion? He's not that bad, even if Hydra is the bane of his existence.  
  
He reaches a hand up to touch his comm. "Cool. I'm on my way."  
  
The comm crackles, and then Natasha says coyly, "Ditch your girl-toy already?"  
  
"Not my girl-toy," Clint complains. He pauses and then says, "Is girl-toy even a thing?"  
  
"It is now," Natasha confirms. "Hurry up. I want to get back to the Tower to debrief before anyone figures out what just happened."  
  
"Got it," Clint replies. He steps over the woman's body in his rush to get to the door, not bothering to hazard a backwards glance.  
  
Natasha's already in the van by the time Clint arrives, huddling in the backseat so that she can't be seen through the windows. She's partially curled up on herself, protectively covering the objective of the mission. She glances up and gives Clint a grin when he slides into the driver's seat of the van.  
  
Clint adjusts the mirror and starts up the ignition. As he's pulling out of the parking lot, he inquires, "All good?"  
  
Natasha unwraps herself from around the item in her possession. "Of course," she replies. There's a twinkle in her eyes as she readjusts herself in the backseat and buckles herself in. "Did you know there's lipstick underneath your ear?"  
  
Clint doesn't take his eyes off of the road as he swipes at his neck. "Aw, man," he complains when his fingers come away smeared with redness. He cringes a little when he rethinks to the woman. Very handsy, very boisterous, very into getting Clint into her bed. God, he's glad he's out of that place and away from her.  
  
Natasha just smirks.  
  
Clint takes a moment to eye Natasha through the rear-view mirror. "Have I ever told you I love you?" he expresses. "Seriously, thank you for getting me away from that woman."  
  
"What, evil Hydra scientists don't do it for you?" Natasha teases.  
  
Clint refocuses on the road, a small smile slipping onto his lips. "Not really," he acknowledges, "but redheads always seem to do the trick."  
  
"She was a redhead," Natasha points out.  
  
Clint just shakes his head.  
  
ii.  
Clint is busy bench-pressing in the gym when he hears someone coming in. He doesn't stop lifting, though, just focuses on his breathing and on the music coming through the speaker on his phone. He tries to pace himself, bringing the bar up to full height on beat one and down to his chest by beat four.  
  
He's never been good at keeping the beat to music.  
  
He's at beat three when the bar comes down the next set, and at beat four of the next repetition when it comes down again. Next, it's beat two and beat one.  
  
Clint makes a mental note to either use a metronome or a song that doesn't keep changing the time signature for his next gym day.  
  
Whoever's entered the gym is using the treadmill. Clint doesn't bother to look up to see who it is, but he can hear the steady _thump-thump_ of the person's feet on the machine. By listening, he can guess that they're running at about seven miles an hour—not too fast. He can't hear heavy breathing, so he assumes that it's someone used to running. Maybe Steve. Or Natasha. Or Sam. Or any one of the senior field agents that tend to use to communal gym area.  
  
Clint's good at quantitative facts: numbers, ideas, speed, reflexes. He can adjust the angle of his bow within seconds to hit a moving target right in its core. He can climb through the air ducts of the Tower and know just how to maneuver himself so that he's completely silent in doing so. He calculate force and drawback pressure so that his arrows fly straight and long every single time. He knows how to change his facial expressions to fit the mood, the mission, the requirement.  
  
What Clint doesn't know are other people. Not entirely, anyway. He knows the boisterous laughs Sam gives out when he's told a joke. He's memorized the way Steve walks when he's upset, hard, heavy footsteps with deep, angry exhales from his nose. How Wanda moves along silently, her feet tapping away quietly with every step. How Tony hides everything from inside those deep brown eyes of his.  
  
Clint just focuses on his music and his reps. He has four more to go—four more up-downs of a heavy bar with even heavier weights. Barbell reps are easy, generally; all he has to do is be mindless, shoving the bar up before letting it drop down. He's used to having to lift weights; though his weapon of choice help him with his biceps, he still needs to go to the gym to work on his triceps, his deltoids, his legs and abs. Running around shooting villains is one thing; exercising to make sure he can shoot villains is another.  
  
He grunts as he drops the bar to his chest again. One more rep and then he'll be done for the day. He can take a shower, go upstairs to the communal living area, maybe eat some of the leftover shawarma that's in the fridge—  
  
His arms are shaking as he pushes the bar up to full height and there's sweat lining his face. He can almost see his life flashing before his eyes as the bar starts dropping, his arms giving up. It's heading straight for his neck, he's going to die—  
  
He shuts his eyes tight.  
  
The bar doesn't hit his neck and choke him. It doesn't land on his chest, either.  
  
After ten long, painful seconds, Clint works up the nerve to open his eyes, still unbelieving of the fact that he isn't dying and/or decapitated. He half-expects the bar to still be falling.  
  
Instead, he gets an eyeful of Natasha, her red hair tied up behind her in an elegant braid that she's undoubtedly done by herself. She's above him, legs on either side of his weight bench, helping hold the bar up and away from Clint's worn-out body. She has sweat across her upper lip and Clint almost wants to reach out to wipe it away.  
  
Instead, he takes in two deep, gasping breaths, and rolls off of the weight bench, repeating, "Oh, my god, I love you, I love you, I love you—"  
  
Natasha just ignores him. When Clint is out of the way of both the bar and the bench, she drops the heavy barbell and lets it clatter to the floor. She's not going to bother with putting the bar back onto the rack until the weight plates are put away.  
  
Clint is laying on his back on the ground three feet away, still panting. He catches Natasha's eye when she turns around to head back to the treadmill. He can hear it still whirring, meaning that Natasha had probably not even stopped it before coming to his rescue—she'd probably have just jumped off or let it roll her to the ground.  
  
"Thank you," he croaks out.  
  
Natasha just quirks an eyebrow at him. "Of course. Can't have my partner dying on me yet, can I?"  
  
Clint throws his head back and laughs.  
  
iii.  
Before the Maximoffs join the side of the Avengers, Clint nearly dies.  
  
The Avengers are all scoping out the country of Sokovia after meeting with Ultron and the twins. They should be hiding, especially after the Hulk's mini-freak-out after the female twin had used her powers, but they hold off on doing so until they can figure out what to do next. Sokovia is small, but all of the Avengers feel out of their league in the country.  
  
Clint separates himself from the group to explore a line of apartment buildings. He moves quickly and quietly, stepping over the rubble that lines the alleyways between the dilapidated buildings. He runs his fingers over the walls as he moves, letting his nails catch on concrete and wood as he moves along. He lets his eyes flicker over the doors and entryways of each building, checking for gives or abnormalities.  
  
He finds ten. He ignores all of them.  
  
The last apartment building has its door opened wide. Clint hesitates in the doorway for a moment before he steps inside, slipping his bow into his hands and dragging an arrow out from the pack on his back. He assembled his weapon as he moves upstairs, angling his body sideways to help soften his movements. He can hear tinkling from one of the upper levels; perhaps water dripping, or metal clinking against metal, or the drop of an object.  
  
At the second floor, he pauses. He switches his bow to his non-dominant hand and starts down the hallway. He reaches the end of it and decides that he needs to go up another floor. He heads back to the staircase and continues up.  
  
On the third floor, the sound is considerably louder. It's still quiet, of course, but Clint can hear it more clearly. He heads to the right, shifting his bow back to his dominant hand, and pulls the arrow taut, just in case. He keeps close to the wall so he can listen inside each individual apartment.  
  
The noise is loudest at the apartment at the end on the right. Clint reaches for the doorknob and shoves the door in.  
  
At first glance, the apartment is empty. Clint spies the sink in the corner and sees it dripping steadily. He enters the apartment anyway and crosses the room to shut off the tap. He lets go of his bow for only a moment, setting it on the counter.  
  
A voice sounds when as soon as his fingers are on the sink and away from his bow. It's a drawl, feminine: "Clint Barton. I would not have expected to see you here."  
  
Clint tenses immediately. His fingers itch for his bow. "Didn't know you would be here," he replies, trying to keep his voice steady. He succeeds.  
  
Wanda Maximoff comes into the edge of his peripheral vision. Clint fights to keep his head straight and not look at her.  
  
"You are quite an interesting man, Clint Barton," she drawls. She tilts her head slightly, letting her eyes wander over the man in interest. "Though I should never have expected less from an Avenger." She spits out the words with distaste.  
  
Clint reaches for his bow. Wanda's fingers spark red as he does so.  
  
Clint drops the bow. The red disappears.  
  
Clint decides to cut right to the chase. "What do you want from me?" he asks. He gathers up his nerve to turn his head sideways a bit so that he can see more of the girl.  
  
Wanda just looks intrigued. She steps closer to Clint and raises her hands again, letting red swirl up from her palms. "What is your greatest fear, Clint Barton?" she inquires. Her hands come closer to his face. "I have seen the death of friends, the horrors of the past... Tell me, what is your destruction?"  
  
Clint forces himself to stay still and not jerk back as her hands near his face. "I believe I told you already," he points out. He risks a pointed glance at her hands. "I've already been out of control once. Not looking forward to it happening again."  
  
Wanda's hands falter. She tilts her head some more, looking pensive. "You tell the truth," she says unbelievingly. Then her gaze hardens again. "But that is not your greatest fear."  
  
"It—"  
  
The hands are up again, closer to his head this time. Clint bites back the urge to shove away the witch or grab for his weapon. By the time her hands are hovering around his ears, Clint's eyes are squeezed shut, waiting for the inevitability of his worst fears to come to the front of his mind.  
  
They don't. Instead, Clint hears a quiet intake of breath before the girl in front of him breathes out, "Natalia..."  
  
"I don't go by that anymore," comes another voice, and then suddenly Clint feels Wanda being pulled away from him.  
  
Clint wrenches his eyes open. In front of him is Natasha, looking fierce and dangerous, her red hair flowing around her face like a veil. Her eyes are on Clint in an instant, worrying and taking in his face for damage.  
  
Wanda is on the floor, unconscious. There's a hardcover book on the floor next to her head, and Clint can only guess that Natasha hit her with it. It wouldn't be the first time Natasha hit someone with a book, but it would be the first time she knocked someone unconscious while doing so.  
  
"I love you," Clint breathes out. He steps forward on shaky legs and retrieves his bow and arrow from the counter. "Have I told you that yet? Because I swear— What would I do without you?  
  
"Probably die," Natasha says, shaking her head slightly. She's got the faintest smile on her face as she turns to lead the way out. "The others are waiting for us. Come on."  
  
iv.  
Thor might be able to charm the pants off of girls with his dashing looks and deep voice, but the stories he tells are boring enough that Clint puts them on par with bedtime stories.  
  
"It is much different in Asgard than it is here on Midgard," Thor is saying. "Of the many events you Midgardians celebrate, only a few are heard of in Asgard."  
  
Clint rubs a tired hand over his eyes, brushing away the sleep. He takes a moment to compose himself before saying, "Yeah?"  
  
"Of course," Thor says. "You Midgardians seem to celebrate every—"  
  
Natasha's voice comes along, airy and light. "Thor, I think Tony needs you down in his lab."  
  
Thor straightens up and says, "He has requested aid from the son of Odin?"  
  
Natasha tilts her head and says, "He has."  
  
Thor gets up from his seat on the couch quickly. To Clint, he says, "We shall finish when I return." To Natasha, he says, "Thank you, Lady Romanoff. I bid you take care of our mutual friend?"  
  
"Of course," Natasha says smoothly. She moves out of the way as Thor walks past her, Mjölnir swinging in his hand.  
  
Clint wipes at his face again and yawns shamelessly. When he's finished and his mouth is closed again, he questions Natasha, "What does Stark need with Thor?"  
  
"He doesn't," Natasha says devilishly. She sidles over to the couch Clint is sitting on and prods at his legs with one long finger. "Lift up and let me sit."  
  
Clint does so, raising his legs so that Natasha can slide onto the seat. When she's settled in, Clint lets his legs drop back down onto her lap. With one eyebrow raised, he says, "You lied to a god?"  
  
Natasha just smiles at him. "You'd do the same for me."  
  
"No, I wouldn't."  
  
"Yes, you would."  
  
"Okay, maybe I would," Clint concedes. "But only because he's really, really boring."  
  
"I know. That's why I saved you," Natasha says, still smiling.  
  
Clint thinks she looks beautiful like this, red hair fanning out on her shoulders, eyes bright and mischievous. He reaches out a hand to touch her but misses. "God, I love you," he expresses. "I don't know how much more of that I could've taken."  
  
Natasha just quirks a lip and says, "You might want to actually fall asleep before he comes back, or he might actually finish that story."  
  
"Dear god, no," Clint says quickly, shutting his eyes.  
  
He passes out to the feel of Natasha stroking shapes into his left shin, soft and flowing.  
  
v.  
"You're an idiot. You know that, right, Barton?"  
  
Natasha is angry. She has every right to be—Clint had jumped out in front of the enemy without armor and with only his bow and arrows. He had managed to shoot off three very good shots, but he'd also gotten shot in return, a bullet to his left thigh. He'd been lucky that the bullet hadn't nicked an artery, that it had hit a fleshy part rather than the bony structure of his femur.  
  
Clint just gazes up at her hazily. He's pumped up on painkillers, which are making him a little dizzy. He's having a hard time keeping her face in focus, and he reaches out for her wildly, hand flapping in the air with no real direction. She takes pity on him, though, and grabs his hand.  
  
"I'm your idiot," Clint slurs out. "But you love me anyway. And I love you."  
  
Natasha sighs. "Clint..."  
  
"I do!" Clint protests. "Tasha, you're the best. Best person. Ever. Can't believe I got so lucky having you as my best friend, my partner... god, you save my life every day. Can't get better than that. Can't get better, getting to see you. Ever damn day. You're perfect, Tash. Just perfect, and damn if that's not the best thing."  
  
Natasha's lips have twisted into a wry grin. She doesn't look particularly happy with Clint's words, but he doesn't seem to notice. "I'm not perfect," she points out.  
  
"Perfect's objective," Clint says, rolling his eyes. He's a little loopy. "What's that thing you used to say—not all things to all people all the time? Yeah. Perfect is imperfect. Your imperfect is my perfect. So I love you and your perfect-ness."  
  
"Clint, you're not making sense," Natasha says softly. She lets go of Clint's hand, and he scrabbles to get it back.  
"I am," he defends adamantly. "And I love you."  
  
"That's the meds talking."  
  
"It's not," Clint says stubbornly. "And I'll tell you again and again once I'm weaned off and then... And then... And then you'll see I really love you."  
  
Natasha just shakes her head. She reaches over to the bedside table to pick up the little remote and presses the button to call the nurse. To Clint, she says, "You're not yourself right now. I don't want you saying anything you'll regret when you're back to normal."  
  
Clint's about to protest, but then the nurse comes in, a slender male with sympathetic eyes, which are currently directed at Natasha, who's still holding the remote. "Did you need something?" the nurse inquires.  
  
"I think it's time for him to get some shut-eye," Natasha says. She avoids looking at Clint. "Can you get the doctor?"  
  
The nurse nods and leaves to fetch Clint's physician.  
  
"Not gonna regret," Clint says feebly.  
  
"You will. Besides, love's for children, and I'm not a child anymore," Natasha sighs.  
  
Clint doesn't get a chance to respond then, because the doctor comes in and pushes a bolus of something that makes Clint's head feel so, so heavy, and he just passes out.  
  
vi.  
Clint wakes up to white ceiling and starchy hospital gown against his skin.  
  
"You're awake," drawls a voice from his right. "How much do you remember?"  
  
Clint turns his head to see Natasha. She looks worse for the wear, dark bags under her eyes and her bright hair mussed. Clint guesses she'd spent the night awake, watching over him. She tended to do that sometimes—watch to make sure everything stayed okay. It's one of her better traits.  
  
"Not much," Clint admits. "Got shot, but I can tell that from the leg pain."  
  
Natasha sends him a warm smile that sends him nearly over the moon. "You did," she confirms. "Anything else?"  
  
Clint tries to think back to what else happened. He can slightly remember the tail end of their previous conversation, back when he was drugged and hazy and blurting anything that came to mind. He makes a mental note to himself to deny heavy painkillers in the future and tells Natasha, "I meant it."  
  
Natasha tries to play dumb, but Clint can see the look in her eyes. "Meant what?" she says, acting confused.  
  
"I love you," Clint says. "And I think you're perfect, even if you are a little screwed up. Because I'm just as screwed up."  
  
"I'm more screwed up," Natasha says. She seems to be ignoring the beginning of his sentences again.  
  
"Maybe," Clint acknowledges. "Give me a few more years. We might be on level then."  
  
"Probably not."  
  
"Probably not," Clint agrees. "But I still love you anyway, Red Room and assassin and all."  
  
"You don't," Natasha says, but she doesn't sound too convincing.  
  
"I do," Clint presses.  
  
"Love is for children."  
  
"And you were an adult when you were a child. So maybe now it's time for you to be a kid again," Clint says.  
  
"I think your logic's faulty."  
  
"I think my logic is right. And I also happen to think I love you. A whole hell of a lot, actually."  
  
Natasha eyes him for a moment, then sighs. "Clint..."  
  
"I love you."  
  
"Clint, stop."  
  
"No. I love you."  
  
"Clint."  
  
"I love you."  
  
"Cli—"  
  
"I love you, and that's not changing."  
  
"C—"  
  
"I love you."  
  
"C—"  
  
"I love you."  
  
There's silence. Then:  
  
"I love you, too."


	4. five times wanda uses her powers to look into people's minds + the one time she doesn't have to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tags: wanda/everyone [wanda/vision, wanda/steve, wanda/natasha, wanda/scott, wanda/thor, wanda/spoiler - see bottom note], telekinesis, slight angst, regret, end fluff
> 
> warnings: a:aou spoilers, ca:cw spoilers, mcu canon non-compliant, implied suicide attempt

i.

Wanda learns to hone her powers over her time with the Avengers. It starts slowly, and at first she is only able to perform telekinesis when she's completely focused, but it takes so much energy out of her that she feels faint afterwards every time. Her energy fields tend to suffer after only minutes, ebbing out around the edges before imploding completely, and the red blasts she sends from her palms start out uncoordinated, tending to miss the mark entirely.  
  
After a few months with the help of Vision, Wanda improves. She can move small objects around with nothing more than a twitch of her fingers and can do so while multitasking or only half-focusing. The energy fields she procures start glowing dark and strong and last for far longer, and the bolts she shoots out from her hands become stronger, bigger, able to hit any target right in their core.  
  
Wanda doesn't practice her mental manipulation until she's got everything else down pat. To do so she'd need a volunteer, and as one of the junior members of the Avengers, she doesn't feel entitled to start calling the shots and dig around in her teammates' heads. Instead, she bides her time by improving her other abilities, memorizing induction patterns and controlling her emotions while she does so.  
  
Eventually Vision realizes that the young witch has been practicing all of her abilities except for the one she fears the most. When he does, he immediately reaches out to her, floating through her bedroom wall to stand in front of her pensively.  
  
"You have been practicing all of your abilities except for your telepathy," he says bluntly. "May as inquire as to why you have been avoiding it?"  
  
Wanda looks a little startled, but that's probably because Vision just floated through her bedroom wall. She voices as such: "I believe I have asked you to not go through my walls."  
  
"I felt that time was of the essence," Vision helpfully supplies. "My former comment still stands. Why have you been avoiding your skills?"  
  
Wanda lets a small, melancholic smirk slide onto her face as she shifts her body away from Vision. Her fingers tug on the hem of her skirt, twirling the layers of fabric between deft digits. Eventually, she tells her friend, "I have caused much pain in the past by doing so. I do not wish to hurt anyone else, especially my new friends."  
  
"And when the time comes that you will need to use them? It would be better to know how to use them, to control them, before it is needed," Vision says sagely.  
  
Wanda sighs. She knows that Vision's right, but she still tries to stand her ground. Her time with Hydra... She's caused so much pain already. She does not want to cause any more.  
  
Vision takes her silence in stride and says, "If it would be of any consolation to you, I am more than happy to be the receiver as you practice."  
  
Wanda startles and whips her head around to gaze at Vision. Her eyes are wide, if not a little defensive, and her hands have bunched the edges of her skirt together in a vice-tight grip. "What?"  
  
Vision looks undeterred by her surprise. "It would be my pleasure to help you finish perfecting your skills. It's the least I can do for the kindness you have shown me these past few months."  
  
"Vis..."  
  
"Do not think about it now," Vision insists when he hears her falter. "If you decide that you do not want to, I will not press. But if you do, understand that I will be here for you."  
  
Wanda just smiles. "Thank you," she expresses.  
  
Vision nods and floats back out through her bedroom wall, much to her dismay.  
  
  
  
Two days later, Wanda decides to take him up on his offer. She calls him into her bedroom and shuts the door behind her tightly, locking it. She turns around and sags against it, watching Vision carefully. After a moment, she says hesitantly, "Are you sure about this?"  
  
"Of course," Vision agrees.  
  
Wanda bites her lip and steps closer to him. Tentatively, she reaches out her hands to encircle the android's head. "I don't know if I'll be able to control myself," she warns before she does anything else.  
  
Vision just lets out a low chuckle. "I'm stronger than I look, my dear," he says fondly.  
  
Wanda's still nervous, but she lets her eyes flutter shut. Slowly, she works up her confidence enough to focus and lets red sparks start dancing out across her fingertips. She can feel them moving, hot marks that poke at her flesh like needles. It's not painful, but the sensation tingles and makes her itch. Carefully, she rotates her wrists, moving her palms into different positions and keeping her eyes closed the entire time.  
  
The first thought that pops into Wanda's head almost makes her gasp. It shows just how in control Vision is of his thoughts, of his place in the current time-place continuum, of how relaxed and assured he is right now. _I know you can do this._  
  
She bites her lip and shifts her hands again, trying to bring something else into consciousness. She manages to pull up a memory from back when Ultron was on his rampage. She can hear the echoing of Vision's thoughts, of what he was thinking the first time he saw the metal villain: _He is dangerous. He must be stopped._  
  
One more memory, a thought pulled from the very depths. It almost surprises Wanda to see herself in the memory, the very first time she and Vision met.  
  
_You are something special._  
  
ii.  
Vision eventually manages to reassure Wanda that none of the Avengers will be in the least bit afraid or worried if Wanda decides to practice on them. He tells her that they've all given her permission and that they're all excited to see her learn how to control her powers. Wanda doesn't believe him—don't they remember how she used her powers against them when they first met?—but she doesn't say anything about it.  
  
Instead, she just practices.  
  
She comes up behind Captain Rogers one day while he's eating breakfast. She keeps her footsteps light as to not disturb the man and stays behind him, in his blind spot. Slowly, she raises her hands, but instead of placing them near his head like she usually would, she only brings them up to the height of his neck. She's doubtful that it'll work.  
  
It works.  
  
The first thought that pops into Wanda's mind is Steve's current one: something about baseball, which certainly makes sense. The man is reading the newspaper, utterly enraptured in something about the Dodgers. It doesn't make much sense to Wanda, but, then again, she's not much of a sports fan.  
  
She lets redness start curling the edges of Rogers' mind, letting him know she's nearby. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.  
  
Wanda delves deeper into his mind, taking care to keep the red pillowing around in his head. She keeps her control light, letting him still have some autonomy in case he wants her to stop.  
  
The next memory is of Steve being pulled out of the ice. Immersing herself, Wanda can feel the cold creeping her bones as the ice around Steve's body melts. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, her heart rock-solid. There's something there—  
  
_Why—_  
  
_Why am—_  
  
_Why am I alive? I should—_  
  
_I should be—_  
  
_I should be dead._  
  
_I was supposed to die._  
  
Steve gets up abruptly and leaves the kitchen, his newspaper discarded hastily to the side, still on the article about the Dodgers.  
  
iii.  
Natasha is Wanda's next target. The assassin is deadly and beautiful, and Wanda's not ashamed to say that she's a little more than just scared of the woman. Natasha, full of energy and radiating power, almost makes Wanda quake in her boots sometimes.

  
Wanda finds Natasha in the communal living area. The redhead is busy flipping through channels on the television, looking both bored and engrossed at the same time. She doesn't give any inclination that she's heard Wanda enter, but Wanda knows better. Natasha is a product of the Red Room; she knows when people enter. She knows people by their breaths, their sighs.  
  
Wanda steps up behind Natasha and raises her hands. Remembering how she was able to look into Steve's head from his neck, she opts to only raise her hands to just below shoulder-height.  
  
In comes the first thought, loud and clear: _I know you're there._  
  
Wanda almost jerks back.  
  
Another thought: _Don't be scared. We all told Vision we'd help._  
  
Wanda allows herself to shift tactics and pushes a thought into Natasha's head in return. _I'm afraid I'm going to hurt someone,_ she confesses. _I've already hurt enough._  
  
_We all hurt people. It's what makes us human,_ Natasha replies.  
  
Wanda doesn't return with another comment. Instead, she starts poking around, bringing up memories of past missions—Manhattan, Sokovia, Lagos. She watches the Chitauri aliens tear up buildings and destroy roadways; glances as flames engulf buildings in her home country; looks on as Natasha views the destruction of Lagos—  
  
Watches as Natasha rewatches the events of Lagos. Of the destruction. Of the bombing Wanda caused—  
  
_It wasn't your fault,_ Natasha's voice says, floating by. _If it wasn't the people on the building, it would have been the people on the ground. You did your best._  
  
Wanda ignores her and leaves the memory. She digs deeper.  
  
There's one memory that's on the edge of falling. It looks almost stitched-together, shoved away so far away that Wanda has a hard time finding it in the first place. She's drawn to it, the way Natasha's seemingly trying to rid herself of it. She prods herself closer and reaches out to it.  
  
Metal table cold against her bare legs. Starchy gown covering her body. Hands—too small, young, unblemished.  
  
Childish youth. Fear. Bile rising in the throat.  
  
A woman, hair pulled back tightly, a grimace on her face. "Congratulations," she is saying. "You have completed the Graduation Ceremony."  
  
Blood.  
  
Wanda pulls away with a gasp, yanking her hands away from Natasha's body and slapping them to her sides instead.  
  
Natasha's turned around and is looking at her. There's something in her eyes—not pity, but sadness. Maybe disgust. Definitely sheepishness. "I didn't mean for you to see that," Natasha apologizes.  
  
"I didn't know—" Wanda starts. "I'm sorry."  
  
"It's fine. It's part of my past. It's not a big deal," Natasha says reassuringly. She doesn't sound convinced of her own words, shoulders slumping down only incrementally.  
  
"I'm sorry," Wanda repeats.  
  
She leaves the room hastily.  
  
iv.  
Scott is more than just a little excited to have his mind read, and he tells Wanda as much. He pleads to her, "Do me next, please!"  
  
Wanda does. A week after Natasha, she creeps into the gym and stands behind Scott, who's busy gasping and wheezing on the treadmill. He's not entirely out of shape, but he is out of his element in trying to run at a pace faster than his usual. For a thief-turned-superhero, he doesn't know his limits well.  
  
Wanda puts her hands at waist-level this time.  
  
The only thing Scott is thinking of currently is of how he wants his workout to be over because he's _dying,_ so Wanda skips it. Instead, she prods into his past, seeking out his very first covert operation.  
  
As it turns out, his first covert op isn't very covert at all. It's a robbery, a burglary in the dead of night in an abandoned house in a tiny town. Wanda can feel the uneasiness radiating off the memory, and she knows that this is the memory of the very first time Scott had broken into anywhere.  
  
He's young, maybe in his late teens. He's gangly and awkward, looking out of place in the neighborhood with his all-black attire. He looks nervous, as does the teen standing beside him.  
  
"Luis, are you sure about this?" Scott whispers.  
  
"Yeah, man, how many times do I have to tell you this?" the other boy says. Wanda finds his accent endearing. "I was at the diner with Kelly, you know, the blonde one with the big boobs, and it was that place on Main with the real good food, not the one on Second. And anyway, she was telling me that John, her ex-boyfriend who—"  
  
Young-Scott cuts him off. "Way too much detail. Tell me, are you sure about this?"  
  
"Hell yeah," Luis decides. "If this goes good, maybe we can hit up Jamba Juice later."  
  
"For what, post-thievery smoothies?" Scott says disgustedly.  
  
Luis just gives a big smile. "I was thinking more along the lines of stealing a smoothie machine or two, but yeah, that works, too."  
  
Scott just shakes his head.  
  
Wanda leaves Scott's head to see him finished with the treadmill and sitting down on the ground, looking exhausted. There's a line of sweat on his forehead, trailing down to his upper lip. He's busy guzzling water from a bottle and only looks at her when he's downed the entire container.  
  
"I almost forgot about that one," he admits.  
  
"Do you regret it?" Wanda asks. She would understand—one act of breaking-and-entering and Scott turned to a life of crime. Did he regret going into that first house? Did he regret spending years in jail?  
  
Scott stumbles a little as he stands up. "Regret it? No. Without it I wouldn't be an Avenger."  
  
"But you would have your wife. And your daughter."  
  
"Cassidy. Yeah." Scott looks a little sad now. "Well, maybe I have some regrets. But, then again, don't we all?"  
  
"Wise words from a thief," Wanda says dryly, trying to cheer Scott up a little.  
  
It works. Scott brightens up and says, "Like I always say, life is about choices. We are who we want to be."  
  
"You've never said that."  
  
"Well, it's the thought that counts, right?"  
  
v.  
Wanda doesn't even lift her hands the next time. Instead, she keeps them right by her sides and focuses as hard as she can.  
  
Clint had declined her request. She'd asked him permission, because even though he might have told Vision yes didn't mean that he actually wanted to. He'd had someone in his head before, controlling him and messing up his thoughts. She didn't want to have to put him through that again if she didn't have to.  
  
Instead, she chooses Thor, who has thoughts that are loud and boisterous and memories that are bright and vivid. It's easy to be pulled into his mind, even if she does have to focus with all of her energy to stay there.  
  
Thor's head is full of images of Asgard, beautiful and luxurious. Wanda gets the chance to touch the petals of alien flowers, reveling in their sheen and softness. She relishes in the opportunity of getting to see the men and women of the realm, eyeing their clothing choices with envy and pleasure.  
  
She manages to conjure up one of the moments where Thor and Loki are together. Thor, smaller and younger than he is now, with his blonde hair only just past his ears and his armor two sizes too big on him. He's less muscular, but he's lean and lanky, looking undoubtedly like a teenager even if he must have been thousands of years old already.  
  
Loki looks much the same as well: long, dark hair and bright, calculating eyes. He's dressed in green and looking tired.  
  
"Brother," says Thor, reaching out a hand.  
  
Loki smiles and repeats, "Brother. How are thee?"  
  
"Better, now that you're here. And you?"  
  
"Exhausted."  
  
Wanda leaves to find another memory. She prods around in Thor's head for a few minutes before she finds the first time Thor visited Earth. She can feel the ache in his bones when he gets hit with Darcy's van, the terror in his veins when he wakes up in the hospital. And then she sees when he first sets eyes on Jane.  
  
_Beautiful._  
  
Wanda manages to pull away then and sets her eyes on a smiling Thor. He's looking lost in thought, eyes glazed over. He looks happy.  
  
Eventually he pulls himself out of his thoughts. He looks at Wanda and says, "Lady Jane was the most beautiful Midgardian I had ever laid eyes on. She still is."  
  
"I can tell," Wanda says. She lets her hands drift to the hem of her skirt so she can start playing with it. "You have a lot of love for her."  
  
"I do," Thor confirms. "And she does for I as well."  
  
"Yes. But— Is it hard to love someone you cannot last forever with?"  
  
"Because I'm a god?" Thor clarifies. At Wanda's nod, he tilts his head and says, "I suppose it is. But it is better to have a love end than to not love at all."  
  
"It is," Wanda agrees softly.  
  
vi.  
Wanda gasps and covers her mouth. "This is a dream."  
  
"This is not a dream."  
  
"It isn't real."  
  
"It is, my dear  сестра."

[сестра = sister]  
  
Wanda can feel her eyes start to water. "I..."  
  
"Are you not happy to see me?"  
  
"I am... I just— I thought you were dead."  
  
"As did I. But I am not. Come, give your long-lost brother a hug, shall we?"  
  
Wanda gives a smile and steps into Pietro's waiting arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [wanda/pietro]


	5. five times t'challa whoops bucky's ass + the one time he doesn't mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tags: bucky/t'challa, minor bucky/steve, relationship development, some angst, fluff, consensual non-consent (non-sexual), public embarrassment (non-sexual), tumblr prompt fill, tony/cap reconcile, post-cryofreeze
> 
> includes: bucky + t'challa (main), steve (minor), sam (minor), wanda (very minor), clint + scott (mentioned), tony (very minor), dum-e (mentioned), natasha (mentioned), random teenager cameo appearances
> 
> warnings: ca:cw spoilers + divergence, mental health (ptsd, anxiety, sleepwalking, and nightmare mentions), swearing
> 
> based on this tumblr post _(warning: extreme chapter spoilers):_ http://bovaria.tumblr.com/post/150901138052/sourcedumal-saejima-taiga-sashayed

i.  
After the bombing in Vienna, T'Challa isn't proud to say that he suffers. He begins waking up in the middle of the night, sweat covering his forehead and heart pounding wildly in his chest. His throat will feel raw from screams he doesn't remember making, and his hands will shake uncontrollably when he brings them up to touch his face.  
  
Sometimes, during the day, he'll flinch when one of his advisors knocks on the door to his office too loudly. When someone comes in to deliver his lunch to him, he notices himself stiffening up as the tray is dropped onto his desk. And when one of his people shout out a greeting to him, their voices loud and sudden, T'Challa can feel bile rise up in his throat.  
  
But as the king of Wakanda, T'Challa doesn't let it show. When he gets in front of his people to deliver speeches, he preps himself beforehand, breathing heavily at his reflection in the bathroom mirror while he composes himself. When he has to leave the safety of his bedroom, he makes sure to keep at least one weapon stashed on him at all times. When he has to leave Wakanda for political or business meetings, he always double-checks to be sure that his Black Panther suit is in his suitcase as well, accompanying him on his journey.  
  
A psychologist in the States—who is bound under numerous confidentiality agreements, courtesy of Wakandan lawyers—diagnoses T'Challa with anxiety. A psychiatrist goes further and declares that the King has PTSD, which T'Challa supposes fits quite well.  
  
He keeps both of these diagnoses to himself.  
  
A month before James Barnes is to be released from cryofreeze, Steve Rogers comes to T'Challa. Once again, the blonde man thanks T'Challa for his hospitality in letting them stay in Wakanda. Steve and Tony have not quite completely reconciled, but T'Challa is pleased to have the Americans—and Sokovians, in Wanda's case—living in his country.  
  
"It has not been a problem," T'Challa tells the young man. "It has been my pleasure to accommodate you."  
  
"I can't thank you enough," Steve expresses. "You've done so much for us these past few months—and now you're helping Bucky."  
  
Bucky's name brings a shiver through T'Challa's lean frame. His mind instinctively goes back to the bombing, and while he knows that Bucky wasn't the actual cause of it, he can't help the tremors that wrack his body. He tries to keep the involuntary movement to a minimum; he's certainly had practice hiding the shakes from his people.  
  
T'Challa finds himself agreeing with Steve's words. "He has gone through much in his lifetime," he tells Steve. "It would not be right to deny him the right of normalcy."  
  
Steve nods. "I understand. That's actually what I came to talk to you about."  
  
Although the Wakandan scientists have been working around the clock, they have yet to find a way to remove the conditioning from Bucky's mind. They have pored over Bucky's file, discussing chemical and therapeutic possibilities. They have nixed the idea of reconditioning Bucky to the words that trigger his Winter Soldier persona, but only for the reason that they don't know how to—nowhere in the file is a descriptor of how the words were implanted in his mind in the first place. To override them, they would need to do so in the exact same way.  
  
Chemical possibilities are being crossed out daily. Antidepressants—the effects would be limited. Tranquilizers—they have the potential of memory loss, but exactly how far that loss could be is unknown.  
  
The only idea the Wakandans have left is brain surgery, but they don't want to have to do that unless absolutely necessary. The possibility that they touch or cut something that's holding back the Winter Soldier is huge; nobody knows exactly what's going on in Bucky's head. If there's a trigger, it won't show up on scans. No one wants to take the chance of unleashing the Soldier permanently.  
  
"Oh?" T'Challa questions. He shifts on his toes, taking a defensive stance. The news Steve has given him up to this point has always been beneficial to T'Challa and the other Wakandans, but T'Challa senses that there's something different about this time. The way that Steve looks nervous, for one; it brings the hairs on the back of T'Challa's neck into standing position.  
  
Steve doesn't seem to notice his discomfort. Instead, he starts rooting around in the pockets of his jeans while saying, "I know that Bucky probably won't be waking up for a while, but I wanted to be prepared for when he does. So... I bought him a phone." Steve holds the offending object out towards T'Challa, fingers loose around it.  
  
T'Challa reaches out hesitantly and takes the phone from him. He mulls it over in his hands, running his long fingers over the screen and protective casing. It's light in his hands. It's not Stark-made. "And you are giving me this because...?"  
  
"I don't know if you have any protocols about phones here," Steve says. "So I just wanted to err on the safe side."  
  
T'Challa glances up from the phone to look at Steve; the man looks sincere enough. Faintly, he recalls the fact that neither Steve nor his fellow Avengers have used their own cell phones since arriving in Wakanda; rather, they've limited themselves to using Wakandan phones. T'Challa can understand Steve's hesitance.  
  
"Of course," he replies. He lets his fingers curl around the phone protectively. "I can have this returned to you in a few days, if you'd like."  
  
Steve smiles brilliantly at him. "Thanks."  
  
"It's my pleasure."  
  
  
Unfortunately, there is nothing to do to the phone. The SIM card is adequate enough, and there is nothing in the Nigerian nation that will prohibit the phone from being used. The only difficulty may be of charging it, but T'Challa assumes that Steve has already purchased the necessary cords. There is, seemingly, nothing to do but wait before giving it back to the Captain.  
  
However, the morning before T'Challa gives back the phone, he is struck by another nightmare. This one leaves him panting and breathless, ears ringing and eyes blind with shock. He stumbles out of his bedroom to the bathroom and splashes water onto his face for ten minutes. When he finally looks up from the sink to gaze at his reflection in the mirror, he's dripping with water and his eyes are wide and terrified.  
  
He can remember his nightmare in its entirety: Barnes.  
  
Before he retires back to bed, he does two things. First, he goes to a set of his scientists and demands them to put a location tracker on the phone meant for Bucky. With the feeling of his heart nearly beating out of his chest, he hopes that putting something on the phone will ease his nerves.  
  
Secondly, he makes an appointment with his therapist.  
  
  
When Barnes is finally released, he is exhausted. He has dark circles underneath his eyes even though he has been asleep in cryofreeze for months, and his cheeks have gone gaunt. Steve fusses over him and feeds him spoonfuls of soup in one of the dining rooms. Bucky just grins and bears it.  
  
Steve delivers the phone to him two days later, once Bucky's starting to settle in and the Wakandan scientists have fiddled with his brain some more.  
  
  
Most of the time, T'Challa's nightmares are forgotten as he awakes, thrashing in his bed. He can recall his feelings—terror, anxiety, anger—in the dream, but the subject is usually whisked out of his head. Sometimes, he can remember flashes of colors, of scenes, but never of faces or bodily physiques. Those times are the best; for nightmares, he'd rather not see the cause of them.  
  
Once in a while, T'Challa wakes up disoriented. He'll see black around the edges of his vision, blotting out everything except what's in front of him. When this happens, he usually winds up coming back to himself in one of the forests overlooking his kingdom. He never remembers how he gets there, but he acknowledges that it is he, himself, who is bringing him outside.  
  
When Barnes is released from cryofreeze, these wanderings change. The first time he walks after Barnes' release, he winds up two doors away from Barnes's room. When he finally comes back to himself, he blinks twice and goes back to his bedroom.  
  
The second time, T'Challa wakes up in a blind panic. It's another dream with Barnes, this one startlingly realistic. T'Challa fumbles for his own phone, opens an app, and checks to make sure that Barnes and his phone are where they should be. They are. T'Challa goes back to sleep once his heart slows down.  
  
But he doesn't fall asleep entirely. Within an hour, he's up, sleepwalking again, moving stealthily towards Barnes's room. And when he reaches it, he doesn't wake up this time. Instead, he enters it.  
  
T'Challa wakes up this time to find himself pounding into Barnes's flesh. He's horrified at what he's doing, and he stops immediately. He practically throws himself off of Barnes, landing on the floor with a loud noise.  
  
He runs to the bathroom and pukes.  
  
ii.  
Eventually, T'Challa learns that Barnes is sincere. The dark-haired man is not there to create havoc or reign destruction; rather, he wants to heal. T'Challa can see it, the way Barnes's eyes turn soft when people talk to him, the way Barnes wants to go to therapy, wants to get better. He's willing, and he wants to change.  
  
Eventually, T'Challa starts calling him Bucky instead of Barnes.  
  
Eventually, they develop a friendship that could rival his and Steve's, and Bucky is more than willing to be a part of it.  
  
It starts in steps. First, Bucky forgives T'Challa for the sleepwalking beat-down he'd been given. T'Challa had been nervous to talk to Bucky after it, but Bucky had waved away his fears. "I could see it in your eyes," Bucky had said nonchalantly. Honestly. "That wasn't you."  
  
("Just like the Winter Soldier wasn't you," T'Challa had granted.)  
  
Secondly, they began spending time away from the inside of T'Challa's palace. T'Challa begins showing Bucky around, pointing out the different parts of the castle and of the surrounding grounds. Together, they explore parts of the forest, where T'Challa shows Bucky the different types of Wakandan plants and Bucky teaches T'Challa how to identify edible bark.  
  
It takes time, but eventually they form a bond. It is just under the bond that Bucky has with Steve, but that's kind of a given; Steve and Bucky have been friends, have known each other, for longer than T'Challa has been alive. It makes sense, and he would not want to break the bond the two have. They have both struggled—Bucky with the train, Hydra, and the Soldier; Steve with the train, the plane, and the ice—and they need each other. They have semi-shared life experiences, and nothing T'Challa could do would replace that.  
  
Their bond develops fairly quickly. T'Challa knows that Bucky is not the reason for T'Chaka's death, and Bucky knows that he's been forgiven, so there is nothing for their relationship to do but flourish. And when it does flourish, it does so grandly: they bicker.  
  
It's the kind of bickering that Steve and Sam have, the sort of playful jabs and taunts that dictate their relationship. Steve and Sam have their usual routine, which goes something like:  
  
Sam: "Oh, that's what it is?"  
  
Steve: "That's how it is."  
  
They're quoting from their first encounter, a sort of inside joke that everyone seems to know and everyone leaves alone. It's a way for them to make fun of each other while playing nice, and it seems to lift up both of their spirits. It makes Steve feel normal, and it gives Sam an excuse to rib at a centenarian-aged man without shame. After all, they're both normal people on the inside.  
  
For Bucky and T'Challa, they're not so normal. T'Challa is a king, born and groomed to be so. Bucky is a warrior, a deadly assassin, with murder practically ingrained into his genes.  
  
Neither of them are normal. On the other hand, neither of them care to be so.  
  
So, instead of making fun of each other like friends usually do, they decide to fight each other.  
  
It starts out simple. One day, T'Challa is sitting in the garden instead of being in his office filing paperwork. It's warm out, the perfect temperature for the middle of spring, and so he takes his lunch outside to eat and watch the flowers bloom. He's just taken his second bite out of his sandwich when he spots Bucky coming around the side of the palace, not looking his way, and an idea suddenly pops into T'Challa's head.  
  
While Bucky is looking in the other direction, probably gazing at the pond or the birds, T'Challa stands up and sneaks around the garden until he finds a place he's relatively sure Bucky can't see him in. He keeps a watchful eye on his friend as he readies himself, trying to think of the perfect time to leap out and catch him by surprise.  
  
And then he realizes that he's still holding his sandwich.  
  
A devious smile flits across his lips. As soon as Bucky is near enough, T'Challa whips out from behind his hiding place and flings the sandwich in Bucky's general direction. When it hits Bucky, the man jerks his head in T'Challa's general direction, a scandalized look on his face.  
  
Bucky finds T'Challa's face and frowns. He brings a finger up to swipe at his face to wipe away the mustard that dripped from T'Challa's lunch. "What was that for?" he asks. He doesn't sound angry; he sounds more amused than anything else.  
  
T'Challa just grins, and without a second's warning he launches himself at Bucky. He tackles his friend at the waist and brings them both down to the ground, and they're only a messy tangle of arms and legs before Bucky gets his bearings and retaliates. Soon Bucky's on top, sitting on T'Challa's broad chest. The next moment, T'Challa's the winner, pinning Bucky to the ground by his arms.  
  
And it goes on. For around five minutes, they roll around on the musty ground, throwing one another back down when one goes to get back up, flipping each other around at a moment's chance.  
  
For Bucky, this feels like Brooklyn 1940, when he and Steve used to wrestle on the ground for fun.  
  
For T'Challa, this feels like a challenge, and it's one he's going to win.  
  
iii.  
One thing everyone finds out about T'Challa is that, for all his glitz and glamour in his palace, he doesn't like parties. He tends to shy away from social events like the plague, and whenever he gets invited to a gathering he usually makes up an excuse and apologizes.  
  
Sam finds this out one day when he's wandering the palace grounds. He finds T'Challa with a rather pretty Wakandan woman, who's busy asking T'Challa if he'd like to come to her son's birthday party.  
  
Sam hears T'Challa say, "As much as I would love to, Adaku, I am afraid I must decline. I have some business with the Nigerian embassy that night, but please, give your son his blessings from me."  
  
The woman bows and says, "Maybe next year, then."  
  
"Of course," T'Challa grants.  
  
The woman leaves, so Sam makes his way over to the bigger man. He claps a hand on T'Challa's shoulder and says, "An embassy meeting? Anything you need backup for?"  
  
T'Challa just smiles ruefully. "I'm afraid not. The embassy is of no need for me, not yet. I just..." He hesitates for a moment, thinking of how to describe what he wants to say. "Do not want to disappoint," he finally decides on.  
  
Sam raises his eyebrows. "The king of Wakanda, lying? Wow—I never thought I'd see the day." He squeezes T'Challa's shoulders and adds, "Well, I take if you're not going to her party, you're more than free to come to ours. We're having a little get-together down by the pool tonight. You up for it?"  
  
T'Challa smiles a little and shakes his head. "I'm afraid I am not much for parties," he apologizes. "But please, feel free to—"  
  
Sam cuts him off. "No, you're coming. It'll be fun. You, me, Barnes, Steve, and maybe even Wanda if she decides to come out of her room. It's nothing fancy—just a couple of friends hanging out."  
  
Already, T'Challa can tell that Sam's stance will not be an easy one to budge. He can sense it in the stiffness of Sam's posture, the way the hand on T'Challa's shoulder is heavy and tight, the way Sam's eyes are wide and trying to peer right into T'Challa's soul.  
  
T'Challa sighs and admits defeat. "I will be there," he promises.  
  
"Good." Sam removes his hand from the man's shoulder and gives him a pat on the back instead. "I'll see you then—seven sharp. Don't be late. I'll send Barnes on you if you are."  
  
It hits T'Challa with a sudden thought that none of the other Avengers are aware of his and Barnes's friendship. He supposes that that's to be expected; they haven't exactly flaunted it. They haven't done any activities with the other Avengers, instead preferring to find solace in one another. Bucky has even admitted, on one occasion, that their friendship is odd considering the fact that T'Challa once tried to kill him.  
  
T'Challa's going to fix that.  
  
  
He meets the other Avengers by the pool ten minutes after seven. The promised trio is all there, and even Wanda has decided to make an appearance. The only two missing are Clint and Scott, but T'Challa supposes that they have better things to do; Clint has been enamored with the archery range since his arrival, and Scott has been missing his daughter something fierce.  
  
Wanda spots him first and raises a hand in greeting. "Glad you could join us," she drawls in her heavy accent.  
  
"Wouldn't miss it," he replies back. His eyes scan the pool area, looking to see where everyone is. Wanda's laying on a towel by one side of the pool, and Steve and Bucky are sitting side by side on the opposite side. A towel T'Challa suspects belongs to Sam lays at the head of the pool—the middleman between the boys and Wanda, which T'Challa supposes is relevant enough. He's been told that Sam is the peacekeeper of the group.  
  
Steve's eyes find T'Challa's as he lets his gaze fall on Bucky again. There's something in Steve's eyes that he can see from even this distance away—fear? T'Challa can't understand why for a minute, but then it clicks: he's afraid. The last time they were all together, apart from when Bucky was put into cryofreeze, was when T'Challa was trying to kill them all. And since Steve has no idea that Bucky and he have officially reconciled, he has a right to be worried.  
  
T'Challa smiles a little to himself. This will be fun. The nerves he'd gotten about coming to this little party have all but disappeared by now.  
  
He raises a hand in welcome and says, "I should hope this pool party includes entering the pool at some point."  
  
Sam just claps him on the back again like he did earlier. "We were just waiting on you, man," he promises. "We didn't want to get the party started before everyone got here."  
  
T'Challa just smiles and makes his way over to Steve and Bucky's side of the pool. He makes sure to arrange his blanket far enough away to keep Steve's worries at ease and smiles at Bucky when Steve turns away to talk to Sam. Bucky just makes a face at him.  
  
  
Ten minutes later, the sun is just beginning to set, casting pinks and purples over the water. It's peaceful—but, of course, all peace has to be disturbed at one point. Sam is the first to enter the water, cannon balling ungracefully into the deep end. Wanda follows next, sliding into the water with practiced ease. And then comes Steve, who drops in, splashing Sam on his way down. Bucky's getting ready to jump in as well, and this is when T'Challa decides to put his plan into action.  
  
Bucky is taking small steps backward, obviously intended to take a running leap into the pool. T'Challa can see that he's angling himself, aiming for an uninhabited part of the pool, and that just makes T'Challa's plan all too foolproof. He gets up from his towel and watches.  
  
"Come on already!" Sam shouts from inside the pool. He sounds amused. "I don't want to be pushing ninety by the time you get your century-old ass in here!"  
  
"Yeah, well, screw off," Bucky shoots back. He's got a smile on his face, wide and unwavering. He bends his knees a little, crouching and getting ready to run low and fast into the poolside. T'Challa sees his chance.  
  
As Bucky starts to run forward, T'Challa dashes out. Steve barely gets a chance to scream, "Bucky, watch out!" before T'Challa has grabbed his friend around the waist and pulled him back.  
  
And then, in one quick motion, before Bucky is able to even tell he's been stopped in his tracks, T'Challa sets him down, plants one big foot in the middle of Bucky's ass, and pushes, effectively launching Bucky into the pool face-first.  
  
And then he runs.  
  
Steve is still staring, flabber-gasted, at the scene, his eyes flickering between his best friend and the Wakandan king. He's about to shout something, to tell off T'Challa for trying to kill his newly-rehabilitated friend, when Bucky pops his head out of the water, gasping and out of breath. Immediately, Steve rushes over to Bucky as fast as he can while mostly submerged in water.  
  
"Are you okay?" Steve asks worriedly. "I can—"  
  
Bucky just twists around in the water and roars, "I'm gonna kick your ass, you fuckin' asshole!"  
  
T'Challa just laughs and yells back, "Only if you can catch me, you outdated popsicle!"  
  
Now it's Sam's turn to gape, but instead of saying anything about the way T'Challa just drop-kicked Barnes into the pool or the way Barnes is now getting out of said pool to chase T'Challa around, he just whispers, "Did the king of Wakanda just call Barnes an outdated popsicle?"  
  
"I believe so," Wanda says smoothly, a grin twitching her lips.  
  
iv.  
Eventually, the Team Cap side of the Avengers is allowed to go back to America for a short period of time. Tony isn't told of the news, so there are no distractions while Steve, Bucky, and their friends wander around downtown California.  
  
T'Challa tails along too, mostly because he has no important business to attend to in Wakanda. He's fixated on all the sights, the city nothing like Wakanda and vastly different from Vienna and the parts of the States he has visited already. He thinks he likes the crowds, the bright lights, and the loud noises. It's so different from Wakanda, and though it should make him feel nervous and claustrophobic, he feels oddly at ease, though maybe that's because he's surrounded by half of the Avengers.  
  
(Or it could be because of the knife he has hidden in the waistband of his pants, but that's a different story.)  
  
During their stay in California, they wind up renting a hotel room under several assumed aliases that Natasha (though she's not officially a part of Team Cap) gives them. T'Challa gets to live life for a few days as Richard, a name he's neutral toward, while Bucky has to live as Eugene, which he wholeheartedly complains about.  
  
"All the kids named Eugene used to get their asses kicked back in '45," he protests.  
  
"You better shut up or I'll kick your ass," Sam threatens.  
  
  
Two days into their time in the States and they've run out of food. Most of it has to do with Steve and Bucky's enhanced metabolisms, which causes them to eat near-constantly. Part of it has to do with the fact that they didn't bring much food to begin with, airline restrictions and all.  
  
So they separate. Steve heads to a clothing store to purchase more things for disguises, Wanda diverts to a spice store for seasonings and tea, Sam goes to find a meat market, and Bucky goes to the grocery store. T'Challa himself is left at the hotel because, as Steve told him, it wasn't his fault the food was gone. Which was a lie, of course, because T'Challa can pack away just as much food as the super-soldiers, if not a little less, but he wasn't going to say anything about it. Why would he? At the hotel, he had television and soft sheets. And he's a king—do kings go grocery shopping? No, he doesn't think they do.  
  
He's ten minutes into a Lifetime movie when his phone chirps. He picks it up absentmindedly and clicks the app that's interrupted his television viewing. He shifts his eyes over to his phone screen and a little smirk starts to grace his face.  
  
He leaves the television on and leaves the hotel.  
  
  
Bucky is in a little grocery store two miles away when he notices something in his peripheral vision. He ducks just in time for a shopping cart to fly over his head and crash to the floor in front of the frozen section. He stays there, crouched for a moment, trying to decide whether or not Hydra would throw something so silly at him. He eventually decides that they're not _that_ stupid.  
  
He straightens up and tries to see who threw the cart. He can't find anyone, so he shakes his head and stoops to pick up the groceries he'd dropped in his haste to get down low.  
  
He starts to stand up and notices something in the corner of his vision again. He drops completely flat to the ground, undoubtedly smooshing his food items, and cranes his neck to watch as the same cart flies over his head again, this time coming to a stop in front of the check stand of an incredibly bored-looking teenage cashier.  
  
Bucky twists his head around to see if he can catch the offender this time. Though he doesn't catch a face, he manages to catch a glimpse of a hand as the person walks away. He would know that hand anywhere. He gets up, retrieves his flattened items, and pursues the person.  
  
He's sure he's right behind the person when someone tackles him around the middle. They both go down, Bucky cursing the entire way. When Bucky manages to get his bearings, he sees a grinning T'Challa sitting on his chest, looking triumphant and ignoring the looks other shoppers are giving them.  
  
Bucky pushes at his friend's leg. "Get off," he demands.  
  
T'Challa's grin just grows. With Bucky, he's slowly learning to be more outgoing with people outside of his Wakandan kingdom. "And leave you free to roam?" he inquires. "I think not."  
  
Bucky just groans.  
  
v.  
Eventually, T'Challa does get off of his chest and gives him what Bucky thinks is a sincere apology. It's always hard to tell with the Wakandan prince, especially since T'Challa has had more practice lying—"It's not lying, it's just not telling the entire truth to the press!"—than Bucky has had deciphering.  
  
Bucky decides to go to the bathroom before paying for his items. He'd given the flattened bread to a pimply-looking stock boy and had gone to retrieve another. That, along with an assortment of high-calorie, high-protein, and highly-nutritional (fruit, of course, because who eats vegetables willingly? Not James Barnes, that's who.) food, graces his shopping cart. After the tenth item he'd picked out he'd needed to grab a cart, since his hands were rapidly overflowing.  
  
He parks his cart outside the bathroom door and heads inside. As he picks out a stall—no urinals here—he pushes his shirt sleeves up. He locks the door behind him and then unzips his pants.  
  
He's always been quick in the bathroom, mostly because of his time in the army. There were those who were impatient when they needed to use the restroom and would knock the door open if they thought you didn't finish quickly enough. Bucky had only been barged in on with his pants around his ankles twice before he finally wised up and began moving at double-time. Even now, seventy years later, he still moves quickly.  
  
He's just finishing washing his hands when he hears the door open. He doesn't think much of it, especially since it's a multiple-occupancy bathroom, but he does get surprised when a hand grabs his shoulder. He flails out but misses, and within a second or two he's on the ground for the second time that day.  
  
T'Challa, again, is on top of him, smiling down at Bucky with a predatory grin. "You're losing track of your surroundings," he says pointedly.  
  
"Cats are supposed to be silent," Bucky retorts. "You'd suck if I could hear you every time."  
  
"Panther," T'Challa corrects.  
  
"Same thing," Bucky says. "Now get off before I catch something off this floor."  
  
vi.  
It takes a couple of months, but eventually Tony and Steve reconcile. Although Tony is still forlorn about it, he forgives Bucky for killing his parents, acknowledging the fact that Bucky wasn't in his right mind when he did so. Tony fully shifts the blame onto Hydra and tells both Steve and Bucky as such, stating that he is outraged at what they did and that he is fully prepared to "nuke their serpent-y asses into the next century."  
  
Tony, being that omnipresence is one of his vices, invites the members of Team Cap to live in Avengers Tower along with the members of Team Iron Man. His reasoning is that they need to learn to be a team again, but none of that really matters to any of them.  
  
The first night back, Steve can't sleep. The mattress is too hard compared to the lush bed he'd slept on in Wakanda.  
  
The second night back, Sam can't sleep. He's used to falling asleep to sunsets and waking up to chirping birds, and he doesn't get either in the Tower.  
  
The third night back, neither Wanda nor Clint can sleep. They both get the feeling that they're being regarded as criminals, something they hadn't felt while in Wakanda.  
  
The fourth night back, Scott can't sleep. He's too busy missing his daughter.  
  
The fifth night back, Bucky can't sleep.  
  
He misses T'Challa and their friendship.  
  
T'Challa doesn't use Skype and their phones don't seem to be working well with an ocean in between them, so they get radio silence from one another for months. When Bucky decides to learn how use email—because Hydra had no reason to teach the Winter Soldier how to use Gmail and he never had a need to use it after escaping—Steve is there, helping him. When Bucky wants to go wander the town, Steve tags along beside him. And when Bucky gets phantom pains in his arm, remembering when Tony shot it off in Siberia, it's Steve who comforts him and gets him a warm cloth.  
  
Bucky loves Steve, he really does, but sometimes he wants T'Challa. There's something comforting in getting his ass beat and getting to beat the ass of someone who's not a real adversary. He'd fight Steve for kicks, except he's not sure how Steve will take it and it's not as satisfying punching someone who won't bruise.  
  
(Bucky still bruises. It'll only last for a day or so, but it's enough evidence. Steve's skin goes pale after only minutes.)  
  
  
Bucky doesn't trust Tony completely, but Tony seems to trust him pretty well, or at least well enough to demand him to be his own personal servant. It's mostly little things, like "hand me that wrench" and "get me a nail, three-quarter inch, will you?" and "please stop playing music that's older than me, for god's sake."  
  
That trust even delves deep enough for Tony to start asking Bucky to go out for him on shopping trips. He mostly goes for things like tape and nails, but every once in a blue moon Tony will just send him out with his credit card and order him to "pick up something." Bucky never knows what that means, so he usually just buys random things in bulk. Tony never seems to complain about it, so Bucky never asks him to clarify.  
  
  
Tony's busy trying to repair Dum-E when he groans frustratedly. He waves a hand at Bucky to get his attention and says, "Go out to Home Depot for me and get me a couple of gears."  
  
Bucky stands up from his seat behind Tony's work bench. "What size?"  
  
Tony makes a strangled-sounding noise. "I don't know. I don't care. Get, I don't know, a bunch of each."  
  
Bucky can do that. He sends a quick text to Steve to let him know that he's leaving the Tower.  
  
He hesitates when he sends a similar text to T'Challa, knowing that the man won't get it, but he does so anyway, a matter of habit.  
  
  
T'Challa is in New York talking with someone with political ties when his phone chirps. Since he had told his advisors to not contact him while he was in his meeting unless it was an emergency, he has a right to be startled when it goes off. He pulls it out of his pocket without a second's notice after asking the Ambassador to give him a moment. He reads the message quickly, keeping the expression on his face painfully neutral.  
  
When he looks up from his phone, he sees that the Ambassador is looking at him worriedly. "Is everything all right?" the older man questions.  
  
"No," T'Challa replies grimly. He sets a hard expression on his face and says, "I must go. Hopefully this will not be the last we see of each other."  
  
"Of course," the other man is saying, but by then, T'Challa's already out the door.  
  
  
Bucky has no idea which gears he's supposed to get. Sure Stark told him to get some of everything, but what if _everything_ isn't the right kind? Maybe there's a type of gear that isn't in the bulk section and maybe he needs to go find it. He doesn't want to have to make a second trip to Home Depot if he doesn't have to; he had to walk, since he still doesn't have his driver's license. He should probably look into getting one. In the forties, he never had a reason to—he wouldn't have been able to afford a car, not with his low-paying jobs—but now, in the next century, it probably wouldn't be a bad idea. He sticks the idea onto his mental "things to do" list and goes back to looking at the wall of bulk materials.  
  
Eventually, Bucky decides to just go with what's on the bulk wall and hope for the best. He fills up a paper bag with an assortment of gears—all the same price, so he doesn't have to separate them, thank god—and even tosses in a few washers, just in case. He'd noticed Tony running low.  
  
Checkout is fast. Bucky pays a teenage girl who looks rushed and nervous. Bucky supposes it's her first day, so he makes sure to smile extra wide and tell her she's doing a good job. She looks surprised at the compliment.  
  
(And if Bucky says he's not a little angry that other customers are treating her badly her first day, well, he'd be lying about that, too.)  
  
After paying, Bucky starts walking back to the Tower. It's a good two-hour walk back, since Bucky had stubbornly decided to go to the Home Depot in Bed-Stuy—a 52-minute drive, nearly 11 miles away. For a few minutes of his walk, Bucky grins to himself and tries to imagine what Steve will say when he arrives back at the Tower. Probably something around the lines of, "Buck, you do know there's a hardware store ten minutes away, right?"  
  
Bucky isn't even out of the Home Depot parking lot when he gets blind sided. One second, he sees something flying at him from the corner of his vision; in the next second, he's flat on his back in the grass, the wind knocked out of his lungs and his head spinning.  
  
He's been attacked. He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, and he clenches his metal hand into a tight fist. He monitors his breathing, slowing it down to a manageable, predatory rate, and then flips over onto his stomach—  
  
And there's T'Challa, sitting on the ground behind him, looking entirely pleased with himself. There are grass stains on the knees of T'Challa's expensive-looking suit pants and on the front of his white collared shirt.  
  
Bucky releases his first and stutters out, "Did you just clothesline me, you motherfucker?"  
  
T'Challa clicks his tongue, smiles, and says, "In my country, it is considered incredibly rude to call someone a, what do you say, 'motherfucker'."  
  
Bucky just groans and moves to sit up. He surveys the damage to his clothes and is pleased to see that nothing is ripped or torn; Steve would have a field day with that one if he destroyed his new pants.  
  
Suddenly, Bucky realizes that T'Challa is in front of him, in Bed-Stuy and not in Wakanda. He eyes the dark man carefully and says, "Did something happen?"  
  
"Only politics," the king says.  
  
"So you don't need us to save the world or anything, right?"  
  
"Not today, no."  
  
"Okay. But you're at Home Depot because...you needed something?"  
  
T'Challa breaks out into a wide grin. "I missed you, Barnes."  
  
Bucky smiles back. "I missed you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if i forgot any tags or if there is anything you'd like to see! it doesn't have to be a 5+1 -- it can be anything your hearts desire! just drop a comment in the box and i'll get on it asap.


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